


An Inward Remix

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Georgian Period, Remix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2013-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 59,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James Goldacre, Duke of Rutherglen, is a man of wilful temper, vast fortune, and has no particular desire or need to encounter the upper echelons of London society. His son, however, has other plans for him. </p><p>A remix of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/409866/navigate">An Inward Treasure</a>, from the Duke's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying with this idea for a while, and I sincerely hope and pray it doesn't eat my brain and make me re-write the whole thing. I think that would kill me with exhaustion. But I will make a bold effort to at least get to the wedding.

James Goldacre, Duke of Rutherglen, did not like to come to town.

In fact, he bloody hated it.

For all that he was a Duke, the nobility of London counted that as next to nothing compared to their own pedigree. He was Scotch, and that naturally knocked his reputation several rungs down the ladder, and on top of that, the devilry of his youth had not yet been forgotten. 

The latter aspect, he rather liked.

He had not made any effort to endear himself to polite society, and naturally, polite society had decided that he was too uncouth, disreputable and generally problematic to be welcome as the second son of a Duke. 

That he later returned as the Duke…

Well, it seemed that while they would smile and pander to him, there was no limit to the pettiness and derision that came when his back was turned. 

He was a bachelor, and had been for damn near twenty years. He had no need nor desire for a wife, yet he couldn’t help noting that all eligible daughters became shockingly scarce when he deigned to accept an invitation for dinner. They would be at some friend’s house, or unwell, or courted by someone of lower rank, but much, much more suitable.

Jamie found it laughable that they believed he would be interested in one of their little society sheep in her grand dress and frilly hair, dressed up in fripperies and expecting a gentleman who would bow and primp as much as she did.

He loathed wigs. He detested powder. Above all, he could not bear the incroyable fashions that seemed so fashionable, at least if he was to judge them based on his son. He knew his clothing was outdated, but he gave not a fig for fashion. 

He came to London for business, and that was all, even if Bay begged and pleaded with him to at least show some interest in socialising. He could not recall the last time he had attended a ball, and he was damned sure that he had no need to be fussed over by people intent on scrounging some little of his fortune away from him.

Gold attracted a very particular sort of association, and those were the most tiresome kind of all. 

No. 

London was for business and nothing more, until his wretched brat of a son chose to bring a hissing little cat into their home. 

The damned boy had blathered something about a Viscount’s daughter and Eaglesham coming to tea, but Jamie had no notion to join them. Indeed, he had not intended even to pay heed to them when he stormed into the parlour, seeking his spectacles. He ignored the woman on the couch, in no mood for the Marchioness of Eaglesham’s sallies.

“Where the devil did you put my spectacles, boy?” he demanded.

“They’ll be where you left them, father,” Bay said. He could hear the amusement in his son’s voice. “Are you quite all right, Miss Maurice?” Jamie paused, frowned. Not Blanche, then, but the Viscount’s daughter. “I’m sure father didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh yes,” the woman - little more than a girl - said. Her voice was soft, trembling. Another little sheep. “Quite fine.”

Jamie grunted dismissively, searching the shelves.

He heard the girl catch a breath. “I’m dreadfully sorry, my Lord,” she said, and she sounded positively terrified. He glanced sidelong and saw she was holding one of the cups from the ugliest of his many ostentatious teasets. The bloody things seemed to breed when he was away, and Bay feigned innocence each and every damned time a new one popped up. “It’s chipped.”

All the same, it was his possession and it was damaged by a bleating little lamb.

“Marvellous,” he said, scowling at the cabinet. “The boy brings home another woman and I lose another piece of china.” He turned to glower at his smirking son. “I swear you do this to force my hand, boy.”

Bay sprawled back with an insolent smile, spreading his hands. “Accidents happen, father.”

Jamie’s eyes flashed in warning. It was one thing to have a son who was a cheerfully arrogant braggart, but another entirely to be disrespected by his own son in his home. “Then make matters simple, Bellamy,” he snapped. “Bring no woman who is as clumsy and ill-bred as this one.” He snorted and turned back to the shelves. “Bloody harpie.”

There was silence for a moment, then to his surprise, the lamb spoke.

“If you will pardon my boldness, your Grace,” she said, her voice steady for the first time, “had you not startled me, I imagine your china would be quite intact.”

Jamie paused, book in hand, then turned to look at the lamb who had found her feet. She was young, younger than Bay himself, with a flush in her cheek that spoke of indignation, and not a dash of powder on her pretty face. Her hair was simply dressed and her gown was - like his own clothing - outdated, but still elegant. 

“My, my, Bellamy,” he said, watching her face as he spoke, his fingertip tapping lightly on the cover. “It seems you have brought a little cat with claws into our house.”

To his surprise, the girl glowered at him. “Better a cat with claws than a bellowing bull,” she retorted boldly. 

Bay laughed. He sounded too pleased with himself, the cheeky blaggard. “And the claws are sharp,” he said happily.

“Indeed,” Jamie said, watching her. She didn’t look away from him. Instead, she raised her chin with a pride and defiance he had seen to rarely of late. How very intriguing. “Tell me, little cat, do you delight in breaking the possessions of others?”

She pursed her pretty pink mouth. “No more than I delight in spilling tea upon my gown, your Grace,” she said.

Jamie’s lips twitched upward against his better intentions. “Well, isn’t this delightful,” he said, tapping the book against his hand. Bay seldom brought women home, and if he did, it was rarely more than once. He glanced at his son. “So this isn’t one of your skirts, boy?”

Bay smiled. “Odd’s fish, no, father,” he said, with a glint in his eye that made Jamie all the more suspicious of his intentions. “This little one is far too sharp for the likes of me.”

Bay might not have noticed, but out of the corner of his eye, Jamie noticed that the young woman flinched as if slapped. She leaned forward and delicately placed the cup on the table beside the teapot.

She rose smoothly, but she was pale now, Jamie noticed. “If it pleases you, my Lord, your Grace,” she said, as Bay rose from his seat, “I believe my presence is causing discord.” She offered Jamie a graceful curtsey. Impressive, given her clear distress. “I had no notion of causing any damage to relations or property.” She offered a sparing smile, calm as a summer sea on the surface. “I shall depart before further blame is laid at my feet.”

“Tush!” Bay said, worried. The demmed boy did so hate to make a pretty lady cry. “It was in jest, Miss Maurice, nothing more!” A glare was directed briefly at Jamie, who turned his attention back to his bookshelf. The boy had not even noticed that his words were the ones to inflict the wound. “Father was just being, well… father.”

She looked at him. “Your invitation was most generous, my Lord,” she said, gracious even in dismissal, “but I fear I sour the mood of any gathering I attend.” She inclined her head. “Please offer my apologies to Lady Eaglesham.”

“Miss Maurice, please!” Bay said hastily, stepping forward. “Allow me to apologise on father’s account.” Jamie snorted, wondering at his son’s wilful blindness, as he searched the shelves once more. “He is… straightforward in his words.”

“And you?”

The Duke’s lips twitched at his son’s astonished voice. “I?”

“I notice that you are straightforward too,” she said, the sting of the criticism not entirely hidden by the delicate bloom of politeness. “Allow me to withdraw my sharp claws.” She darted a look at Jamie, and he saw the blush rise in her face again when she realised he had been watching her. “I would not wish to damage the upholstery.”

Jamie could barely stifle a snort of amusement, the smile flicking across his lips before he could curtail it. 

It seemed she took that as further insult, rather than a compliment to her wit. Her dainty hands curled into fists by her sides. 

“Your Grace,” she said with another elegant curtsey, “My Lord.”

She turned her back and walked from the room, head held high. 

She was barely out the door when Bay crossed the floor and hissed, “Why the devil did you have to frighten her off, father?”

Jamie looked at his son in amusement. “Frighten her?” he said. “Lud, boy. That woman has the courage of twenty men.” He tapped Bay in the middle of his chest with the corner of the book in his hand. “You drove her off, my lad. You demmed near insulted her.”

“I did no such thing!” Bay said indignantly. 

“Aye,” Jamie snorted. “Ladies do love to be called sharp. It is a charming word. Sweet and mild, wouldn’t you say?”

“What the deuce have you two rogues done?”

Both father and son turned at the furious female voice at the door.

Blanche was standing there, pulling the gloves from her hands with the ferocity of a Knight about to throw down the gauntlet.

Bay looked flustered. “Lud, I fear I may have unwittingly insulted our guest,” he stammered. 

“Unwittingly?” Jamie snorted, putting the book back on the shelf. “I do declare you state the obvious quite splendidly.”

“And I expect you were wholly innocent, James.”

Jamie scowled. “Have you no respect, woman?”

“None for the impudent wretches who make my dear friend quite distraught,” she snapped, stalking closer, slapping her gloves against her palm. “Confess it, your Grace, did you make sport of her?”

Jamie snorted. “The devil I did,” he said. “The little vixen gave quite as well as she got.”

That brought Blanche up short and she stared at him for a moment, then turned her attention to Bay. “And you? What have you to say for yourself?”

Bay fidgeted under her glare. “I will write an apology at once,” he said. “Lud, I did not know she would take teasing words to heart.”

Blanche snorted uncouthly. “I imagine that which you do not know could fill a very large book,” she said. She waved Bay away and prowled towards the couch, arranging herself in a more ladylike repose. “Now, I have come for tea, I shall stay for tea, but since there is tea for three, you, your Grace, shall join us.”

“Aye,” he retorted with a mocking laugh, “and all the angels of heaven will provide an afternoon’s chorus.” He stalked towards the door. “I have business to attend to.”

“James Robert Goldacre.” Blanche’s voice was as cold as the winter’s snow. “You will sit down and you will tell me precisely what you said to my friend. If there is damage to be undone, I would know of it.”

Jamie stormed back towards her. “This,” he said, picking up the chipped cup, “is the damage.” He thrust it into her hands. “Undo it.”

She looked down at the cup, then back at him. “She cracked your cup, so you insulted her?”

Jamie held up a finger. “It was quite mutual,” he said. He snatched the cup back and looked at it with a snort. “I can’t imagine what Bay was thinking bringing an easily startled little goose such as that into my house.”

Bay huffed. “I thought she might be genial company.”

“Ha!” Jamie snorted. “You can take your genial company as you will. I shall have none.” He turned back towards the door. “And if you find where the deuce you have left my spectacles, I would be much obliged to have them returned.”

It wasn’t until he reached his study that he realised he was still holding the damaged cup. He frowned at it, then set it down on his desk. It was hardly noticeable, it was true, but the fact remained that the damned little cat had clawed it and him in the same moment.

He threw himself down into his chair behind the desk, taking up his pen.

And yet, just occasionally, his gaze drifted back once more to the cup.


	2. Chapter 2

Jamie was distracted.

It seldom happened and when it did, he found it a source of intense irritation. 

The demmed cup had been closed away, but even so, his wretched son seemed quite content to turn the subject of conversation back to Miss Maurice, the little cat who had clawed at him with words and his cup with her clumsiness. Each morning, Bellamy huffed and sighed over the lack of response from the lady in question.

The boy had been writing apologies to her ever since Blanche terrorised him.

"The little vixen is quite stubborn, wouldn't you say?" he said, when Bay lamented for the fifth day in a row. "You would be better to pay a visit and grovel, if you wish to get a response from her. She seems quite the type."

"Ha!" Bay grumbled. "Like you, you mean? Pig-headed when slighted?"

Jamie paused, his cup of tea halfway to his mouth. "You say that tiny slip of a woman is like me?" he said. "Lud, Bay. You insult her all over again."

"Her temper could quite match yours," Bay snorted, pulling a face. "She gave me quite the telling off when I dared to advise her about welcoming the attentions of Aston."

Jamie frowned. "The Baron's son? The one who laid Hemsworth low?"

"Mm." Bay picked at his platter. "He was quite inappropriate with her at Blanche's gathering." Jamie was rather surprised at the rush of hot anger that poured through his veins. "She looked offended, but even more so when I tried to caution her as to his manner."

"And now? Did she heed you?" His father demanded abruptly.

Bay waved a hand vaguely. "You can see how well my intervention proceeds," he said. "She ignores my letters. She does not respond to me. I fear I may have driven an irremovable wedge between us."

Jamie rose from the table, stalking to the window. If Aston was courting her, it was none of his business, but no woman with a sharp tongue and the bravado of his cat would do well with a man like that. He paused, wondering at what point he had started to care about some silly little society sheep's well-being. 

Simply put, Aston was not a decent fellow.

Oh, he could play the part of up-and-coming nobility, that was true, but any man with an ounce of sense could do that. He was a brute and a bully, and from the sounds of matters, he had already begun with Miss Maurice as he intended to continue. If he was inappropriate with her at their first encounter, how could he be expected to improve while he courted her?

"Have you asked Blanche if she might intervene?" he said, watching a carriage rattle by. "A woman is more likely to be swayed by the counsel of one of her own sex." He smiled wryly. "We men, we are not know for speaking sense, after all."

Bay nodded. "She says she will invite Miss Maurice to the ball she is holding shortly," she said. "Some matters are better to speak of in person, rather than phrasing badly in ink."

"Does the woman do naught but throw balls?" Jamie said with a snort.

"It should hardly matter to you," his son retorted, "since you do not trouble yourself to attend them."

Jamie considered the matter. Miss Maurice would be invited, and no daughter of a Viscount would dare to refuse the invitation of a Marchioness, particularly one who considered her a friend. The little cat would be walking abroad alone, if he were to believe Bay's tales of her unwell father. 

It was a rare occasion where there was a woman he would not object to speaking with, who was not closeted away by her father from his terrible reputation. 

Even his late wife had been hidden from him by her family, who thought him entirely unsuitable. He had only been able to reach her at the church for what would have been her wedding disguised as a verger. He didn't know what had infuriated her father more: that she had run off with him, or that she had done so while he was dressed as a clergyman. 

"Perhaps I shall attend on this occasion," he said finally. 

He heard the clatter of Bellamy dropping his cup back into the saucer. "The devil you say!"

Jamie watched his reflection in the polished glass of the window. "Have I lost another piece of china to a clumsy young ninny?" he asked mildly. 

"Stuff and nonsense, father!" Bay exclaimed. "Your china is quite well. What the deuce do you mean you will attend?"

Jamie turned, looking at his son in amusement. "Is English not your first tongue, boy?" he said. "I believe I was fairly clear: I will attend Blanche's ball."

"But you do not attend balls!"

"And yet," Jamie replied, delighted by the confusion on his son's face, "on this occasion, I shall."

Bay rose from his chair. "Then you shall need something suitable to wear," he declared. 

"I believe I have sufficient breeches, shirts and cravats," Jamie said, returning to the table and sitting down. "I shall wear what I choose."

"Lud," Bay moaned, falling back into the chair. "What of my reputation?"

Jamie dipped a sliced egg into a pinch of salt. "What of it? You are my son. I hardly imagine it can fall much further."

Bay looked at him with a rueful smile. "La, that is so," he said, propping himself up on the arms of the chair. There was a wicked little gleam in his eyes. "Tell me, father, do you intend to attend to vex Blanche, or is there another lady you wish to vex?"

Jamie raised his eyebrows. "I merely wish to see if Miss Maurice is as adept at rending your dignity apart on a second encounter."

"I see," Bay said, a slow grin spreading across his face. "You believe she will bare her claws?"

"It is the cat's way," Jamie said sagely. 

He did not add that he intended to survey the man who had deemed himself suitable to court her. Aston's reputation preceded him. As much as Jamie was quite sure he was not interested in Miss Maurice's prospects, he was not about to see her shackled to someone who struck his friends as readily as he struck his horses unless he proved himself otherwise worthy.

He only regretted his decision when the night of the ball approached.

Society was tiresome, particularly when dressed up in lace and feathers. He knew he looked well, if somewhat dated, but that would do little to keep the suspicious looks from him. All the same, Bay would consider him wretched if he retreated now, after making such a fuss about attending.

Blanche's country house was worth a visit at least.

The Marquis of Eaglesham greeted him personally. "Lud, your Grace! It has been some time since you have graced one of our gatherings."

"Aye," Jamie said, glancing around the already bustling hall for a face he secretly hoped to see. There was no glimpse of blue eyes yet. He brought his attention back to the young Marquis. "My son can be quite persuasive when the mood takes him."

The Marquis laughed. "He is at that," he agreed. "The demmed fellow convinced me to wager my best pony when he bowled at Lord's."

"And you heeded him?" Jamie snorted. "Ha! You are more foolish than he is."

"It earned me three new studs for my stable," Eaglesham said with a grin. "He has a dashed cunning arm. He spun the ball quite magnificently. I would swear it was done by magic." He struck Jamie firmly on the arm with an open palm. "I must leave you, old fellow. My wife will give me such a stern reprimand if I am not there with her to greet our guests."

"I am quite capable of entertaining myself," Jamie said, waving him away.

He kept close to the walls of the hall, watching the bustle of people come and go. Blanche herself was the centre of all attention, radiant in a gorgeous gown that just skirted upon being frivolous. 

There were too many people and far too little to interest him, so he retreated out onto the terrace to watch the arrivals and take some air. Carriages were lined up three deep in the broad roadway, and he could see George Aston pacing impatiently, then smiling as a carriage neared.

Jamie laid his hand on the broad stone balustrade. The Maurice carriage. He recognised it as the shabby vehicle that had been waiting outside his home the day Miss Maurice had visited. 

It was ridiculous, he knew, to be waiting with bated breath, and yet, he could not seem to draw air when the door opened, and Miss Maurice emerged. She was swathed in a modest shawl, and to his outrage, Aston immediately plucked in from her, uncovering her.

Jamie cursed explosively.

The dress she wore was too new to have been one of her own, and had undoubtedly been provided by the man presently admiring it and her as if she were a pretty trinket he wished to show off. No lady of good-breeding would ever have been seen in public in such a tawdry gown, especially not at a gathering as well-reputed as the Marchioness of Eaglesham's ball. 

Miss Maurice's eyes were on the ground, and her features were flushed with shame.

Jamie was tempted to storm down, switch the blaggard, and push Miss Maurice back into her carriage to send her home to her father, to be safely cozened from the cruel eyes of society.

Alas, that it was not his place. 

He stalked back into the grand house, pausing at the top of the staircase to search out Blanche.

It was improper, but the devil take Aston if he was about to humiliate one of the rare sparkling gems in London society. 

Jamie caught Blanche by the arm, earning horrified exclamations from several of her lady-friends.

Blanche looked at him, startled. "Your Grace?" she said.

"I would have a word, my lady," he said through clenched teeth. "Immediately."

Blanche searched his face, then nodded. "Ladies, if you will excuse me a moment. The Duke of Rutherglen craves my attention."

The looks of understanding that crossed their faces might have amused him on any other occasion, but his fury was burning hot, and the Marchioness led him quickly to a small alcove.

"What is the matter?" she asked quickly, her voice lowered, though she still offered smiles to those who passed them by. "You look like someone has just sunk one of your ships."

"Miss Maurice has just arrived," he growled out tersely. "That bastard Aston has dressed her up like a harlot and is parading her about like a prize he has won."

Blanche stared at him, then her expression turned as hard as his own. "Very well," she said. "I believe I should have words with Miss Maurice about her suitor immediately." She touched his sleeve with the tip of her fan. "Go upstairs. Cool your temper. I would not have you beat the wretch."

Jamie nodded curtly and prowled back to the staircase. She was the lady of the house, and if she did not wish blood shed in her house, he would bow to her wishes. As long as Miss Maurice was smuggled away from the uncouth Baron's son, he would hold his peace.

He was on the upper landing when he heard them announced, and forced himself not to look at her. He would not shame her further by being one of the staring crowd. He heard the gasps, the titters, and clenched his hand on the banister. He continued upwards, where the air was cooler and the guests were sparser.

He dared to glance down and saw Blanche sweep Miss Maurice away to some private conclave. Aston looked displeased at his plaything being stolen from him, and Jamie saw Bay stalking closer. It was clear that his son was as infuriated by Aston's treatment of Miss Maurice as he was, but Bay was always better at playing society's game, and smiled as if he meant it. 

It was but a moment later when Bellamy turned and walked briskly away, and the Marquis of Eaglesham himself approached Aston. Jamie had no doubt that man had been sent on the behest of his wife, for Eaglesham was nothing if not obedient. 

He started back down the staircase, only to run into his son.

"Papa, you should not..."

"I was the one to warn Blanche, boy," he said tersely. "Have no fear. I have restrained the desire to prick holes in the fellow and sully my blade. I intend to take some air away from all these fools." He jerked his head. "You might wish to divert the imbecile."

Bellamy nodded, rushing off.

If Blanche was wise, which he knew she was, she would have Miss Maurice seen home immediately. Aston would not be pleased about it, but if Bellamy could prove a distraction, then it would be well.

He returned to his place on the terrace, watching the carriages shuffle and move in intricate patterns. Blanche was indeed there, with Miss Maurice close beside her. A shawl had been laid about Miss Maurice, concealing the worse of the wretched gown, and she looked calmer, though even from a distance, Jamie could see the redness of tears about her eyes. 

A flurry of motion made him turn in time to see Aston storm down the stairs towards the two women waiting for the carriage.

“Miss Maurice!” Aston caught the slight woman by her arm, all but jerking her around to face him. “Miss Maurice, you cannot leave.”

On the terrace, Jamie could see the way Miss Maurice paled, and that little control he had retained shattered like dry wood. 

Blanche was doing her utmost to dissuade the brute, but Jamie strode down the stairs in time to hear the man say, “And you choose to run award without speaking to me of it? I forbid it. You look well enough.”

Jamie bared his teeth and wrapped his hand around Aston’s wrist, jerking his hand from Miss Maurice’s arm. “The lady wishes to depart, boy,” he snapped. “I would advise you to let her be.”

Aston turned on him. He was a tall man, with more than half a head on Jamie himself, and breadth to match it. “Who the devil are you?”

Blanche spoke, frost and relief in her voice. “His Grace, the Duke of Rutherglen.”

Aston gawped at him like a stunned codfish, then tugged his arm free of Jamie’s steely grip. “Excuse me, your Grace. I was simply speaking to my betrothed.” He smiled darkly when he said it, and that inflamed Jamie’s fury even further. “It need not concern you.”

“Indeed.” For the first time since he approached them, Jamie turned his attention to Miss Maurice, who was pale as milk. “Miss Maurice, you are unwell?”

She lowered her eyes. “A fainting spell, your Grace,” she said, her voice trembling.

“Fah!” Aston snorted. “Nothing of the sort!”

Jamie’s eyes remained on Miss Maurice’s downcast face. “Do you call your betrothed a liar now?” he asked mildly. “Your concern for her is inspiring.” Those blue eyes darted up as he waved Aston away. “Run along, boy, and allow a sick woman some peace.”

The brute stormed off, huffing and stamping.

“Thank you, your Grace,” Blanche said, one arm still about Miss Maurice. “That young man has a dangerous humour when the mood takes him.”

Jamie almost laughed aloud. “Most men do,” he said. He bowed slightly to Miss Maurice, and less deeply to Blanche. “Miss Maurice. My Lady.”

He turned and walked away, rather than remain and continue staring at the pretty young woman. It was quite ridiculous to defend her, as if she was his to protect, but no damned great brute like Aston had any right or reason to shame her.

“Is all well?”

He jolted out of his reverie at Bellamy’s voice. “What?”

“Miss Maurice? Is she well?”

Jamie nodded briskly. “She is set about for home,” he said. “I may follow suit. My mood is quite soured by that unpleasantness.”

Bay studied him. “Are you quite well, papa?”

Jamie scowled at him. “Lud,” he muttered gloomily. “I help a single damsel in distress, and all at once, the boy fears for me.” He shooed his son away. “I have merely grown tired of this company. It is hardly appealing.”

It had ceased to be so the moment Miss Maurice had disappeared in her carriage.

Bay had a small, suspicious smile on his face.

Jamie snorted and stamped away.


	3. Chapter 3

The events at the Eaglesham house had rendered Jamie more irritable than usual. 

Bellamy had returned home uncommon early, though not as insensible as he might have been. He still managed to knock about a poker in his chamber, which was adjacent to his father's. Jamie was not asleep. Indeed, he was not even changed into his nightwear. He was sitting by the fire, nursing a glass of his best Scotch.

The clatter shook him out of his reverie and he bellowed his son's name.

"Sorry, father!" Bay called through the wall sheepishly.

Jamie scowled, setting aside his half-empty glass.

There was no damned use grumbling into the fire, when all he wanted to do was soundly thrash another fellow for being damned insolent. Miss Maurice had fire, but Aston had stifled it with shame and humiliation, and for that, Aston deserved a lesson to match it. 

Had it been his woman, he would have challenged him, but Miss Maurice was merely an acquaintance, a friend of his son's friend, hardly worth paying a moment's notice to. He snatched up his glass, drained it, and threw imself down upon the bed with an impatient sigh. 

Sleep was not quick in coming. 

He woke as early as ever, snapping at Henry when he stormed down to breakfast. There were letters upon the table already. He ate quickly, then took his correspondence to the office to get to work. Bellamy surfaced some hours later, making noises about going off to his offices and a matter of taking afternoon tea together. Jamie waved him away irritably, as if his babble was the buzz of a fly. 

As much as Bay thrived in legal matters, he had no notion of running the estate in Scotland, and the business that had to be negotiated to ensure trade went smoothly with their southern neighbours. Scotchmen, Jamie observed, were still considered lesser than the London gentlemen, even if they surpassed them in wit and manner. Accordingly, business was not quite as easy as it might have been.

It was some hour or so later, when there was a violent battering at the front door. 

Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the urge to throw something at the wall. All the same, when he heard footfalls on the stairs, his heart clenched, and he immediately rose. The dread that something terrible had happened to Bay was always at the forefront of his mind, even now when his son was full grown. 

Henry rapped sharply on the door, and stepped into the room without invitation, which did not bode well. 

“Well?” Jamie snapped.

“A young lady from the Cranbrook household,” Henry began.

Jamie shoved the man out the way and was halfway down the stairs before he realised that it was not Miss Maurice standing in the hallway. The girl there was a household maid, and she was tear-stained and trembling from head to toe, she cowered back from him, and he saw flecks of red staining her dress.

His breath caught and he slowed his pace. It would not do to terrorise her insensible. “You come from the Cranbrook house?” he said as gently as he could. It still emerged as little more than a growl.

“Y-y-yes, sir,” the girl sobbed. “Oh, please, sir. M-Mr Aston! He came to the house! He hit her! He hit Miss Belle!”

Jamie stared at her. “That son of a fucking whore,” he snarled. “I’ll see the bottle-headed villain backed! Henry! My horse!” He dashed back up the stairs to fetch his boots, and by the time he returned, the door was open and Bucephalus was waiting, stamping, in the street.

“Can you ride?”

The girl shied back, staring wide-eyed at him. “Wh-what?”

“God preserve us!” Jamie snapped. He grasped her by the arm, hauling her down into the street and towards his horse. “You will ride ahead of me, do you understand? You will not simper or whine or do any such nonsense until I am damned well out of earshot.”

She nodded, but he was too impatient to be sure that no blood had been spilled in the Cranbrook house. He lifted her up onto the horse and swung up behind her, spurring Bucephalus to a gallop, his shoes kicking up sparks on the cobbles. 

The girl had obviously never ridden in her life, bouncing in the saddle and clinging desperately to his arm.

He was relieved enough to reach the Cranbrook house for the simple reason she would demmed well let go of him. He swung down and hoisted her down after him, then dashed up the stairs into the house. The door was ajar, and he looked about him, and spotted a boot in one of the front rooms.

He stopped dead at the sight that greeted him. 

Miss Maurice had indeed been struck. She was sitting upon a couch, and her face was all blood. It stained her to near her waist, and she swayed as if she was about to fall. A poker rested across her lap, as bloody as she, and he stepped forward, almost directly upon the fallen body of George Aston. He had a prominent swell on his brow that match the shape and breadth of the poker in Miss Maurice’s hands. The damned brute had earned what he received. 

Jamie approached her and knelt, gently covering her hands, drawing the poker free. She barely resisted, and he knew she must be quite dazed. Her eyes were not quite closed, and he could see the sliver of pale blue.

“Miss Maurice?” he said, keeping his voice as calm as he could. It was a losing battle, for it was tempting to rise with the poker and finish the job. A fellow who beat a tiny maiden could hardly be considered a fellow at all. “Miss Maurice, can you speak?”

“Yes,” she whispered faintly, swaying far more than he would like. “The carpet.” Her voice was slurred, faint. “There is a stain.” One trembling hand moved, then fell back against her skirts. “Papa. He will be most cross.”

Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the unconscious Aston. “There is a good deal more than a stain,” he said dryly. Her head was drooping, but he caught her face gently between his hands, lifting her chin. “Look at me, girl,” he said urgently. “Open your eyes.”

Her eyelids fluttered weakly, but her pupils were so wide and black, he knew she would hardly see him at all. “Is Ellanor here?” she asked, trying to draw back, one hand reaching blindly for the arm of the couch. “I must have a chaperone. I cannot be alone with a gentleman.”

Jamie stared at her blankly for a moment. Knocked about and bloody with an unconscious man on the parlour floor, and she asked for demmed propriety? 

“Ellanor is here,” he said quickly, when she tried to lift herself. He lifted his hands from her cheeks. “Now, do not rise, Miss Maurice. It will do more harm than good.”

She frowned at him, squinting beneath her lashes. “My head hurts,” she said plaintively, and no small wonder. There was a deep gash, though it was no longer bleeding. She brushed his hands aside. “I would like to rest. Please excuse me, sir.” She was only prevented from falling forward by his hand at her shoulder. “I fear I must retire.”

If she rose, if she tried, he knew she would swoon.

“Lie on the couch,” he suggested, taking her arms and guiding her back. She shook her head, wincing, and tried to sit up again, determined to a fault to adhere to manners. He pressed her back more firmly. “You must rest, Miss Maurice,” he said. “If you do not lie still, then I may have to tie you down.”

Her eyes fell closed as she sank back against the cushions. “That would be quite inappropriate,” she murmured. “No guest ought to tie their host to a couch.”

Jamie couldn’t help laughing. “That depends entirely on the host and the guest,” he said, though he regretted it at once, for the look of pained confusion that crossed the young woman’s bloody face. 

He rose, turning on the maid, who was snivelling at the doorward.

“Girl,” he barked. “Come here.” He caught her shoulder, squeezing. “You will fetch water and clean the blood from your lady’s face,” he instructed, “then sit with her until I return.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the maid stammered. “Please, sir, is she going to die?”

Jamie looked down at Miss Maurice, who was already stirring, and snorted. “It is only so bloody because it is a wound to the head,” he said. “Her wits have been addled by the blow, I’d wager, but I have no doubt she will be back to her clawed self in no time whatsoever.”

Had he not been thoroughly distracted be her already, when she all but sighed, “I have no claws,” he knew he was done for.

He folded his hands behind his back. “I beg to differ, Miss Maurice,” he said, then turned and strode towards the door. Fortunately, Henry had done his duty, and several of his own men were hurrying up the steps of the house.

He gave curt orders, sending one off to fetch Bellamy, another to bring a carriage to take the unconscious Aston away, and by and by, the house was cleared of any sign of Aston. Jamie set the maid to scrubbing the carpet once she had told him all that had come to pass, and settled in the chair closest to the couch to watch over Miss Maurice.

The clock ticked sonorously in the corner of the room, and chimed thrice before she came to herself. She moved a hand to touch her linen-bound brow before she even opened her eyes.

“Awake at last,” he murmured, tapping his fingertips together. He had been growing concerned, for she had barely moved, and her breathing had been unnervingly shallow, even for one unconscious.

Her eyes flew open and she turned her head, though she swayed again, and he regretted startling her. “Y-Your Grace?” she stammered. 

He searched her features, noting some little colour returning to her, dismissing the chalky pallor. “How do you do, Miss Maurice?” he asked. “You took quite the blow to your head.”

He saw her gaze flit to the carpet where Aston had fallen, and the flicker of confusion in her eyes.

“Mr Aston?” she asked fearfully.

“Upright and conscious and returned to his abode,” he assured her. His lips twitched at the expression on his son’s face when he had delivered Aston into his hands. “Bellamy accompanied him, and will be sure to inform him very clearly that you do no wish for him to call on you again.”

She hardly seemed to hear him, struggling as she was to sit up. She clutched at the arm of the couch, staring down at herself in dismay. “Lud,” she whispered hoarsely, “I look like a slaughterhouse floor.”

Jamie gazed at her, bloodied, wounded, and yet still as witty and sharp as ever. “I have seldom seen more appealing slaughterhouse floors, then,” he said, rising from the chair. It was a sentimental nonsense for a woman younger than his son, but she would not recall it in earnest, dazed as she was. He crouched down before her, searching her face, and lifted his hands. “May I?”

She tried to focus on him. “May you what?”

He touched her face again gently, turning her head this way and that, and leaned closer to peer into her eyes. There was a scent of apple on her breath, just beneath the thick, metallic reek of blood. She breathed out, trembling, and the breath was so warm and soft on his skin that he shivered, his eyes drifting to her lips.

No.

He drew back at once, standing up. 

“It seems you were just stunned,” he said, returning to the chair and sitting. “If I might ask, what caused this little altercation?”

The tip of her pink tongue darted along her lips. “It was agreed that the engagement should be broken off,” she said, her voice weak. “Mr Aston did not accept it.” She shivered. “He was displeased about the change in circumstances.”

Jamie’s hands closed tight about the arms of the chair. He had not beaten the man to messes, for it was damned uncivilised to kill a man in another man’s house without his leave, but he was beginning to wish that he had. “Your girl said that he struck you first?”

She flinched, closing her eyes, and nodded. “I feared he would strike Ellanor,” she said quietly, as if herself being struck made no never mind. “So I struck him. Twice.” She forced her eyes open and looked at him uncertainly. “Will I be taken before a magistrate?”

Jamie gazed at her wonderingly, then remembered himself. “Not if the boy has an ounce of sense or pride,” he said as gruffly as he could. “It is one matter for a man to strike a woman, but another entirely for a man who claims to be as grand ad pompous as he to be laid low by a little cat.”

Her colour rose. “Please, your Grace,” she said so quietly, “do not mock me.”

He gazed at her, startled. While she had lashed back as readily as he had upon their first encounter, he had not imagined she had taken it as a slight. It took him a moment to gather his words. “Miss Maurice,” he said slowly, carefully, “I do not waste words on those who do not deserve them.” He inclined his head in apology. “If it seems that I mock, then I apologise most sincerely.”

Blue eyes gazed back at him and blinked slowly. “You call me a cat,” she whispered. “Is that not mocking?”

He could not keep the brief smile from his lips. “That is mere observation, dearie,” he murmured. He rose from the chair again and approached her. “Do you feel you might walk?” She looked at him in confusion. “Your father has been waylaid temporarily at the bank, but I wager returning to find you attired as a butcher would do little to ease his heart.”

She nodded. “Ellanor might help me up the stairs,” she said, pressing her hands to the couch in order to rise. He saw the colour vanish from her features and darted forward to catch her before she struck the floor.

She was warm, soft, light as a bird.

“I fear,” he said, lifting her gently, “I must breach protocol, Miss Maurice.” He looked about them, then to the door. “Your room?”

Miss Maurice was struggling to hold her head up. “You cannot,” she whispered.

He looked down at her with an unreasonable fondness for such stubborn manners. “I can and shall,” he said. “Your girl will attend and see that I only place you within.”

Her head fell to rest upon his shoulder. “Very well,” she whispered, sounding forlorn.

It did not take a great wit to know she was uncomfortable with such a compromising arrangement, so as promised, he merely carried her up to her room and set her upon the chair, bowed slightly, and retreated. 

He closed the door behind him, but did not immediately released the polished doorknob.

He wanted her to be well and he wanted her safe. But above all else, he wanted her.

“Damnation and hellfire,” he muttered.


	4. Chapter 4

The Maurice house was inconveniently small. 

Jamie felt the need to pace, but the demmed parlour was broad enough for only some half a dozen steps before he came up against the wall. He circled the room, stalking from corner to corner, gathering his wits. 

It was a feat that took some concentration, for every time he walked the wall towards the door, he passed the bloody stain on the carpet where Aston had fallen, and his mood swept to fury, then to the thought of Miss Maurice being so bold, then to the softness of her skin against his fingertips as he examined her eyes and head.

Were he in his own home, he knew he would have kicked the coal scuttle, but he was not in his own home, and there was mess enough without adding to it. It was hardly courteous to come into some poor sick fellow's house, dash everything about in a temper, then storm out. 

He threw himself down onto the couch, folding his arms upon his chest.

What had the woman been thinking, to tie herself to such a violent fool as Aston? It was clear that the Cranbrooks were poor, but he had not imagined they would be so poor as to debase themselves as much as Miss Maurice had. His eyes flicked about the room, taking in all that lay about him. 

There were no paintings on the walls. In fact, the whole house seemed spartan, with only the most basic of decor. The carpet beneath his feet was threadbare in places, as was the couch he sat upon. Now that he paid attention, he could see where one of the legs of the armchairs was secured with neatly bound cord. They could not even afford repairs, it seemed. 

He sat up, bracing one hand against his knee. There, the dresser that looked fine had been lovingly patched and painted to feign that it was not worn. Two of the small brass handles did not match the others. Like Miss Maurice's clothing, the furnishings had been tended to hide the worst of the wear of years of use.

Jamie shook his head, dazed.

There was the rub.

They were poorer than any had believed.

It was known about town that the Cranbrook lands were faltering, and had been for some time. Sir Maurice, it was muttered, had been quite unmanned by grief at the loss of his wife. Jamie had seldom paid attention to the gossip, though he had heard enough over meetings at Chequers to know that much. All the same, they maintained a respectable house in the country, and the modest townhouse in town. That suggested they had at least some small income. 

Jamie wondered if her father knew what manner of man she was willing to bind herself to, simply to save her family's reputation. He rubbed his chin. If their circumstances were so dire that a marriage was the only option, and Aston was the only one to present himself, it boded ill. 

Aston would not let the matter lie.

He was like an angry dog possessive of a bone. He would come after Miss Maurice again, and next time, a gashed brow would be the least of her concerns.

The idea was nestling there, at the back of his mind, as it had been from the moment he had seen her bloodied and wounded. It was absurd and ridiculous. It was nothing more than concern for a woman who had been beaten. But it did not change the fact that the thought of her brought a wry smile to lips that had seldom smiled in recent years.

He rubbed at his eyes with forefinger and thumb.

"Lud, my lad," he muttered to himself. "You are in a world of trouble, if you continue down that road."

A wife. The thought of taking a wife, even if it was only for her protection, was absurd. He had been a confirmed and mostly contented bachelor for damn near twenty years. To start waxing sentimental about a pretty little thing with a tongue as sharp as a rapier was hardly his place. It would hardly have been his place twenty years earlier.

All the same, unless Blanche was bloody brisk in finding a suitable candidate and had her snatched out of Aston's reach...

He looked about at the rattle of a carriage coming to a halt in the street outside, and rose from the chair.

Perhaps her father had given his approval to the match. Perhaps the man was as much a prig and a brute as Aston. Perhaps he was not worth a brass farthing, and then marrying the demmed woman would be pointless, as it would only serve to line his pockets.

He neatened his cuffs and cravat, then strode into the hall, stepping out just as two men entered the hall. One was tall with unruly red hair, and the other was undeniably Miss Maurice's father. She had his eyes. Those same eyes were narrowed at him with wary suspicion in a face that was gaunt and pale. He was leaning on his man's arm, but straightened up, a fierce frown forming on his face.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he demanded. 

The red-haired man bent and urgently muttered, "That is his Grace the Duke of Rutherglen."

If it were possible, Sir Maurice blanched even further. 

"The Duke of Rutherglen?"

Jamie smiled tightly and made a leg to him. "Indeed, Sir Maurice," he said. He snapped his fingers at the manservant. "You, fellow, get your master into the parlour and seated before he swoons. I did not come here to play a demmed nursemaid."

The man and his master both seemed too startled to protest, and Jamie stalked after them into the parlour.

Sir Maurice sank to sit heavily in the largest of the armchairs, though the size of it made his wasted frame look even smaller. The man seemed half-dead from weariness. 

Jamie returned to the couch and sat, crossing one leg over the other and folding his hands in his lap, as Maurice's man helped his master out of his coat and into his housecoat. Even that seemed a labour, and Jamie politely averted his eyes, making a show of examining the fireplace.

"Where the deuce is Ellanor?" Maurice said in an undertone to his man. "She should have provided refreshment of some kind for his Grace."

"Pardon my eavesdropping, Sir Maurice," Jamie said lightly. "I have her otherwise engaged." He slanted a look at the valet, who bowed slightly and withdrew. Jamie returned his eyes to Sir Maurice. "I was called to this house in some urgency. Your daughter's former intended did not take his dismissal well."

If Sir Maurice had been pale before, he went positively grey at those words, and moved as if to rise.

"Peace, Sir Maurice," Jamie said, sitting up sharply. "Calm yourself. He is gone."

"Belle, my Isabelle," the older man said, wheezing. "Is she quite all right?"

Jamie hesitated for but an instant, but it was enough to earn a low groan of dismay from Sir Maurice. "I will not mince words," Jamie said finally. "The man is a cad and a brute. He has a temper and has no fear of showing his fists. Miss Maurice angered him enough in words that he struck her."

Sir Maurice swore colourfully in French, with a fluency that Jamie found quite admirable.

"A dog's testicles?" he said, one side of his mouth curling up. "Really, my Lord?"

Sir Maurice glowered at him, his hand clenching on his walking stick. "This is not jesting matter, sir," he snapped. "A man has come into my home and struck my daughter."

"Yes, Sir Maurice," Jamie said mildly. "And she has struck him twice in response. With a poker. Rendering him unconscious."

The man's face was quite a picture of shock.

"Isabelle?"

"Mm." Jamie couldn't help feeling quite proud of the creature he had thought a harmless little lamb. "She believed he meant to unleash his fist on her maid, and took up the poker. A quite impressive couple of blows, by all accounts."

"Lud..." Sir Maurice tugged his kerchief from his breastpocket and dabbed at his brow. 

"He was bundled off by my son," Jamie continued, tapping his thumbs together. "Blanche, that is the Marchioness Eaglesham, is on a hunt for a more suitable match, but I fear Aston's temper will not be quashed, especially not now that his pride has been pricked."

"Indeed, no," Sir Maurice said. "He seemed quite determined when I spoke to him in Isabelle's absence. Far too forthright and very demanding." He sighed, the breath gusting in his chest like drenched bellows. "Lud, I should have seen it. He was far too eager to marry into blood. A young buck such as that had to have something the matter with him to be unable to find a bride of better fortunes."

To the Viscount's credit, his words were not self-pitying, but simple statement of fact.

Jamie gazed at him, then leaned forward. He uncrossed his legs and braced his forearms on his knees, folding his hands loosely between them. "The girl must be wed, for her own safety," he said. "You know my reputation, my Lord, and my title would far surpass his."

Sir Maurice gaped at him. "You would wed her?"

It was fortunate, Jamie thought, that the sleeves of his shirt were uncommon trimmed and hid his hands. The knuckles must be quite white. "It would be a business arrangement, nothing more," he said tritely. "My son is fond of her, and that seldom happens, but she is not to his tastes. All the same, he would not see her bound to that man and beaten to messes on his whim."

What articulation Maurice might have had was gone. "But you are a Duke, your Grace. My girl, she has no dowry or title or anything of use to yourself."

Jamie forced himself to shrug dismissive. "She amuses my son," he said. "And you know my reputation and know I have no compunctions about scandalising London again by marrying outwith my station." He offered Sir Maurice a sparing smirk. "In fact, it has been quite some time since I horrified them. It's about demmed time to give them a fright again."

The man stared at him. "And you say it is purely a business arrangement?"

Jamie reclined back on the sofa. "I have no reason to consider it otherwise," he said, the lie thick on his tongue. It was quite ridiculous how delightful the image of Miss Maurice was in his home. Breaking china aside, with her wit and quick tongue, she would be a quite fitting addition. "Of course, the decision must be hers. I would not shackle her against her will."

"Of course," her father said dazedly. "Naturally." He dabbed at his mouth. "Lud."

Jamie took pity on the man, pushing himself to his feet. he held up a hand when Sir Maurice made to rise. "No need to rise, Cranbrook," he said firmly. "Your young tigress would have no mercy upon me if I made her father swoon in his own parlour."

"Indeed," Sir Maurice said. He stared at Jamie in bewilderment. "Are you in earnest or is this some clever jest at my girl's expense?"

"Ha!" Jamie snorted explosively. "I do not jest."

Cranbrook looked at him doubtfully. "Mm." He bowed his heavy head. "Safe onward journey, then, your Grace. It was... interesting to meet you."

Jamie couldn't keep from snorting again. "Ah, there, I see, where the cat gets her claws," he said. "Such diplomacy." He bowed, though this time with more politeness than was truly necessary. "Please pass my regards on to Miss Maurice, and bid her recover swiftly."

A brief, uncertain smile flickered across Sir Maurice's lips. "Thank you, you Grace."

Jamie swung about and stalked into the street. Bucephalus was not there. He had been returned home by one of the grooms, which meant foot was his only option. It was hardly suitable for a Duke, but to the devil with any who might tell him he could not walk abroad.

If he walked, then he might have the time to think on what he had just done, and how the deuce he would inform Bellamy that he might have a new stepmother before the week was out.


	5. Chapter 5

The weather was beastly.

Jamie was irritated beyond the telling of it.

He had issued a notice to the Archbishop begging leave to visit him to discuss a matter of great urgency. It was an unfortunate necessity when one wished to wed in haste: a formal dispensation had to be granted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the demmed fellow had decided that he was entirely too busy being pious to see Jamie. 

Admittedly, the visit to the palace after he left the Cranbrook house had proved fruitless, as the Archbishop was still presently in York. He would have received Jamie's first and second letters when he returned that evening, but by the time the third reached him on Saturday morning, the fact the Archbishop dismissed his request for an immediate meeting until Monday was downright insulting.

Perhaps he did have some services to attend to on Sunday, but it hardly took a dozen heartbeats to sign a damned dispensation.

The only saving grace of the matter was that Miss Maurice and her father were not likely to be harassed by Aston, at least not while he licked his wounds and gathered his senses. No man with a jot of pride would walk back into the battleground all clawed up by a cat. 

All the same, the Archbishop said there would be no meeting until Monday morning, and so, he would wait. Impatiently, it was true, but he would wait. 

He diverted himself by taking the carriage to the more fashionable part of town. It was still early, well before luncheon, and the proper class of people would not yet be abroad. Accordingly, the shops he intended to visit were in the early stages of opening.

Jamie leapt down from the carriage and prowled closer to the door. He had his cane with him for show and rattled it sharply on the door. A shop girl barely younger than Miss Maurice herself hurried over to the door, bobbing in a curtsey as she fumbled with the locks and opened the door a crack.

"Please, sir, the shop will be open in an hour."

Jamie thrust his boot in the crack and shouldered the door wide. "The shop will be open now," he said abruptly, pushing his way passed her. "I have no need for fussing and fripperies. I am here to spend an exorbitant sum on these..." He waved vaguely at one of the dresses on a mannequin nearby. "Confections."

"Sir, please..."

He strode around her as she tried to put herself in his path, and approached the counter. There was a brass bell which he struck sharply. "I'm not dealing with the demmed maid!" he called out, loud enough to echo around the shop. "I am here to give you business, and if you don't get your arses out here, I'll come back there and find you."

A prim-looking gentlewoman emerged through the velvet drapes that divided the shop. She looked unimpressed by his presence, gazing at him sternly. "My Lord has been informed that the shop is not yet open."

"My Lord does not give a fig for your signs or your maids," he snapped. "I have little enough time to have my business done. I have need of a dozen fine dresses within the next five days."

The woman's stern expression gave way to one of shock. "But such a thing is impossible, my Lord!" she exclaimed. "Our dresses are the height of refinement and elegance. They cannot be thrown together in a matter of days!"

Jamie laid his hand on the counter. "That isn't the answer I wanted," he said. "Tell me, dearie, do you enjoy disappointing a Duke?"

She went white as a sheet. "A-a-a Duke, my Lord?"

He leaned closer across the counter. "The correct mode of address," he said, "is your Grace." He tapped a fingertip against the counter. "And I know you'll have some little gowns squirrelled away. I want you to find me the best of them and make them ready by Tuesday. Wednesday at the very latest."

The woman's mouth opened and shut several times. "I-is the lady present?" she asked. "She will need to be fitted."

Jamie sighed impatiently, waving the shop girl over. He held a hand some way above her head. "The lady is this tall," he said. "Her build is approximately the same, perhaps a finger or two broader. If the dresses are a little large, it will not be a cause for concern as I have a seamstress on my staff who can adjust them."

"The seamstresses will require some... incentive," the woman said cautiously.

"Let me see what you have available, and I will tell you how great an incentive it may be," he said, waving the shop girl away. "The lady in question has dark hair and fair skin. I would not have her made to look wan or smothered by her gowns."

"Now, your Grace?"

Jamie rolled his eyes. "Lud, woman, must I demand everything? Yes! Now! Let me see what you might be able to provide, else I will take my business elsewhere."

The shop girl was sent to fetch him a chair to sit upon, and all at once, there was a veritable parade of gowns and dresses and fripperies. Such things tended to drive him quite beyond himself, but the thought of Miss Maurice wearing something that suited her, rather than some patched and oft-repaired old gown, was an intriguing notion.

He knew Bellamy would have enjoyed this particular manner of venture, but he had not yet found a way in which to broach the topic with his son. After all, Bay found him lamentable company when it came to matter of sport or socialising. No doubt, he would believe Miss Maurice deserved far better.

"Wait!" he said abruptly, holding up a hand. "That one. The gold."

The shopkeeper paused, motioning one of the girls forward with the dress. It was elegant and simple, in shades of golds and cream that would flatter Miss Maurice's colouring quite nicely. It also lacked the overabundance of froth and lace that many of the gowns seemed suffocated by. 

"Is it not a little simple, your Grace?"

"Precisely," he said. He rose, scanning the array of dresses, then pointed. "The gold, that rose, that cream, and if you can have a couple like that in blues, that will do as a beginning." He waved the girls aside, and the scuttled back through the curtain, carrying their burdens. "Now, dearie, just how much incentive will your ladies require?"

The shopkeeper took up a pen and wrote a figure on a piece of paper, laying it on the counter. 

Jamie picked it up, examining it. "If your work is satisfactory, I may double this," he said, setting it down. "But I it will come upon delivery and not before."

"Y-yes, your Grace," the woman said. She clearly had expected to be shouted down, but the dresses were needed, and an extra dash of coin would guarantee they would be worked on with more care than they otherwise might. "Very generous, your Grace."

He snorted. "My man will come by with details," he said, turning and stalking towards the door. 

"Your Grace?" She remained by the counter, one hand resting on it, as if she required the support. "What name shall I put against the gowns."

Jamie's lips twitched. "Rutherglen," he said, then stepped back out into the street.

There were three more stops on his route before he set out for home, and the carriage stopped halfway down the street. 

He raised his cane, knocking on the roof. "What are you about, man?"

"There's a coach just departing, your Grace," Reginald called down from the roof.

"A coach?" Jamie leaned out of the window, and recognised the shabby affair of the Cranbrook coach as it trundled past in the opposite direction. He caught a glimpse of a veiled figure through the half-open window, though he doubted that he was noticed. Miss Maurice had paid a call. "Damnation..."

By the time he exited the carriage, the Cranbrook coach was long gone, and he looked up the street in frustration. Had her father spoken to her of his intentions? Had she come to give an answer? Or was she there for some other purpose?

He had to know.

He dashed up the stairs into the house, and almost collided with Bay coming out of the drawing room.

“Lud, papa! Where the deuce have you been?”

“Never mind that now,” Jamie said curtly. “Miss Maurice was just here, was she not?”

Bellamy, idiot boy that he was, smiled slowly. “Oh, you saw her then, did you?” he said in a brave attempt as guile. “I had wondered when you were not present. I half-expected you to come tromping down the stairs to chastise her for the events of yesterday.”

“Chastise…?” Jamie bared his teeth. “If you believe I would chastise a beaten woman…” He trailed off at the amusement in his son’s eyes. “Fah! You think I am quite soft on the little cat, I wager!”

“Are you not?” Bellamy said innocently.

Jamie studied his son’s face and scowled. “What in God’s name brought her here?” he demanded irritably, stalking into the drawing room.

“You know of her need for a husband,” Bellamy said, following him.

“Aye.” Jamie walked to the mantle and fetched his pipe, studiously ignoring his son, wondering if she had told Bellamy what he had been intending to bring up over dinner the night before. “What of it?”

“She knew that Blanche and I were making enquiries,” he said. “She said it has become more urgent, for Aston returned to their house this morn.”

Jamie wheeled around, eyes blazing. “The devil he did!”

Bellamy took a step back, startled. “He did,” he said. “Miss Maurice is alarmed because he claims he had a gentleman’s agreement with her father, and that with the agreement rendered void, he is due recompense. If he does not receive it, he will have the law determine that the contract stands or Cranbrook will be ruined.”

Jamie stared at him in silence, his hand clenched about his pipe.

He must have had a murderous gleam in his eye, for when he stormed around his son and towards the door, Bellamy reached out and grasped him by the arm. “Papa, you know you have no right to harm him.”

Jamie looked down at his son’s hand, the back at Bellamy’s face. “Aye,” he said, “but I would have the pleasure, and that I am sorely tempted to take.”

Bay’s grip tightened. “I may be a good lawyer, papa,” he said quietly, sternly, “but even I will not be able to liberate you if you are caught taking your pistol to George Aston’s face.”

Jamie blew out a noisy breath. “Oh, it would not be a pistol,” he said darkly. “That would be far, far too kind. You did not see what he did to Miss Maurice.”

“I did,” Bellamy said, his voice calm and even. “She was veiled, but she allowed me to see her.”

Jamie’s shoulders sagged. “He struck her, Bay. She’s near half his damned size and he struck her as if she were an ill-behaved dog.”

Bay’s fingers tightened briefly on his arm. “I know, papa,” he said, “and tempting as it may be to knock some sense into the bastard, I have a far better fate in store for him.” He smiled when Jamie looked at him. “I know people who know people, and much of the Baron’s business is built upon his reputation. Diminish that and it diminishes their fortune. Diminish that and you diminish Aston’s chances of remaining as swell a popinjay as he is now.”

“Ruin the blaggard,” Jamie murmured. “Yes. Yes, it would be quite fitting.”

“Not the father,” Bay said. “Alderley is a decent fellow, even if his son is a demmed cove. But bring about enough doubt and discredit to the name, and none will touch Aston with a yardstick. Aston would not risk his family’s fortune for revenge on some slip of a Viscount’s daughter.”

Jamie smiled in satisfaction. “And some insolent fools have the temerity to doubt that you are my son,” he said with pride. “A finer punishment I could not imagine.”

“Which only leaves the matter of a suitable husband for her,” Bay said. “My action against Aston will take time, but Blanche is looking for a suitable candidate.”

Jamie’s lips twitched at one side. “I’m sure a prime one will present himself at the first possible moment,” he said. 

Bellamy nodded in sober agreement. “We can but hope.”

Jamie thought of his appointment with the Archbishop on Monday. “Indeed,” he said.


	6. Chapter 6

Sunday was said to be a day of rest.

Jamie found the very concept laughable. 

He could not very well march into the Cranbrook house without the correct documentation and simply propose with the promise of protecting Miss Maurice. The thought she might accept was utterly absurd.

All the same, he sent some of his largest, burliest men around to ensure that both Miss Maurice and her father were not unguarded. From the sound of things, Aston’s visit had taken a terrible toll on Cranbrook’s health, which was all the more cause for haste. With her father weakened, Miss Maurice’s protection had diminished. 

Bellamy was quite caught up in exchanging missives with Blanche, and while Jamie admired the sentiment, no second cousin of a Marchioness or nephew of a Baronet was going to be enough. All the same, he was curious enough about those they might consider that he allowed them to continue. Better than have them ask him of his own distemper. 

He was not a patient man, and waiting until Monday morning was proving a torment. 

Neither he nor Bellamy were particularly inclined to attend services, for the Church of England smacked too much of watered down Catholicism for their tastes. A good Presbyterian service was far more tolerable, if Church did indeed have to be tolerated. 

Unfortunately, to earn the Archbishop’s good graces, he made sure to be present and very much visible in a show of piety that earned whispers and stares and a reproachful look from the Archbishop for quite accidentally making himself the centre of attention. He folded his arms upon his chest and glowered, but remained and followed the service as best he could.

Bellamy was just surfacing when he returned, and looked at him with sleepy amusement.

“Did you go to stare down the Archbishop again?” he asked, yawning expansively. 

“No,” Jamie said sullenly. The demmed man had not even deigned to look at him when he tried to approach. Two hours of insufferable droning, and he had not even given the courtesy of a nod of acknowledgement. 

If he was not to get his dispensation today, then, he decided, first thing on the morrow, he would go to the palace again. After all, the Archbishop had not specified a time. 

He was up at dawn, and at the Archbishop’s palace by eight of the clock, standing on the doorstep and waiting impatiently. The Archbishop’s butler stared at him in astonishment when he presented his credentials and demanded to see the Archbishop at once.

The Archbishop’s parlour was comfortable, but all the same, waiting there for damn near and hour and a half grew quite tiresome. Jamie could only pace the walls so many times before he wished to storm up the stairs and shake the man awake himself.

All the same, when shown into the Archbishop’s office, when asked for his reason for a dispensation, when challenged regarding his desire for such an urgent marriage to some lowly half-common woman, Jamie was torn between mortification and outrage. 

Miss Maurice’s name was to be left out presently, lest she refuse and that, the Archbishop took issue with. If a name was being withheld it suggested that the marriage was to be forced upon an unsuitable and unwilling subject. The implication was quite clear: had he placed a lady in disgrace to wish to hasten a marriage by forcing her hand with a licence?

Jamie suspected swearing at a man of the cloth would have earned him reproach, so he held his tongue in check and dug his nails into his palm, smiling tightly and insisting there was no threat of disgrace, only affection for the woman in question and a wish for discretion as the lady had her own troubles to be dealing with. He gave his word that the woman was indeed of age and had wit and will to consent as she chose, and that no hands were being forced.

The Archbishop gazed at him solemnly and continued to ask questions with an infuriating calm that made Jamie want to stamp and snarl and demand the signature on the demmed papers, but he did not. As much as he wished to, he did not, and it felt like he was rewarded when the dispensation forms were brought out, signed and marked with the Archbishop’s seal. 

The ink was barely dry when he dashed back down to Bucephalus, who had been tethered in the stables.

“Come on, you old brute,” Jamie said, swinging into the saddle. “We have a lady to woo.”

It was close upon noon when he reached the Cranbrook house, and was quite satisfied to see his men shadowing Cranbrook’s red-haired man when the front door was opened. “I am here to see Sir Maurice, if he is available,” he said curtly.

The man opened the door wider. “Miss Maurice is abroad, your Grace. I believe she would see you, for Sir Maurice is still abed.”

Jamie tapped his fingertips against the edge of the folder in his arm. It would be preferable to speak to Sir Maurice first, but it had been days since he had seen Miss Maurice, and he was not adverse to seeing her once more.

“Very well, then,” he said. “Miss Maurice.”

He was led through to the back of the house and a small drawing room. Miss Maurice was standing beside a table, littered with papers. She stood straight and proud, despite her poor surrounds, and the hideous bruising and gash still marring one side of her face.

Jamie bowed deeply. “Miss Maurice,” he said, searching her features. They were healing, he could see, but were still ugly and raw. She lowered her eyes modestly. “I trust I find you well.”

“Quite well, your Grace,” she said softly, still looking at her feet, as if ashamed to be seen, a flush of bright colour burning in her cheeks. 

“Hmm.” He stepped closer, wondering if it was the wound that shamed her, or if her father had offered his proposal and that was why she was so discomfited. “I do not find myself convinced.” He tilted his head, looking at her. “Come, girl, raise your chin.”

To his relief, she lifted her eyes and met his gaze with boldness. “As you can see, your Grace,” she said, “I am much improved.”

“Much improved on a slaughterhouse floor,” he agreed dryly. She laughed, though one hand leapt to her mouth to stifle it. It was a musical sound, quite as lovely as she was. Jamie’s lips curved up in response and he shook his head wonderingly. Far too much spirit for such a little thing. 

“Indeed, your Grace,” she said, lowering her eyes in a show of modesty. “I cannot imagine it would be possible to look much worse.” He caught the glimpse of her blue eyes as she glanced up through her lashes.

He was staring. He knew he was staring, so he cleared his throat and strode around her towards the table. “You are doing the household accounts?” he inquired, hoping to keep himself from looking at her. 

She rushed back to his side, gathering up the papers, and he could see the flush of embarrassment as she tried to conceal the figures from him. “My father is likely to be unwell for some time,” she said, avoiding his gaze. “My hand is the only hand left.”

He slanted a look at her. Wise enough to deal with accounts, and lovely too. What a loss she would be to some younger buck with need of a good wife. “One might wonder whether you know your place,” he challenged.

She was silent for a moment, putting the papers in order. She was thinking on her answer, he realised, a rare trait indeed. “My place,” she said, “is aiding my father as best I can.” She looked at him coolly. “If it means using my wit, rather than my needlework, then so be it.” He couldn’t smother the grin entirely, and it only made matters worse for she narrowed her icy eyes at him. “Do you seek claws once more, your Grace?”

He snorted in amusement. She was a delightful little cat, clawing despite her denials. “One needs not seek what one knows to be there,” he replied, stepping back enough to put a more proper distance between them. If she kept being so defiant and lovely, he would have to kiss her and that would be entirely inappropriate. He forced his attention back to the file in his arm, tapping it. “I would speak with your father on a matter of business.” She frowned at him and he hastened to add, “I am aware he is unwell, but I only require a moment.”

She stared at him, then drew herself up. “I am dealing with matters of business, your Grace,” she said. “If you wish to discuss anything, you may discuss it with me.”

As tempting as that invitation was, he shook his head, holding her gaze. “The business is not a matter for you to be concerned with, Miss Maurice,” he said. “It can solely be discussed with your father, though I have no doubt of your efficacy.”

Her little hands clenched in stubborn fists by her sides. “My father is abed, your Grace,” she said calmly, but firmly. “I cannot see him given fresh worries.”

Jamie laughed briefly, wondering if she knew that the conversation was a matter to take away the greater number of the Viscount’s concerns in one fell swoop. 

“Miss Maurice, I only intend to speak briefly to him, regarding our conversation of several days ago,” he said solemnly. “As you were not privy to it, I am afraid you cannot assist me.” He inclined his head. “He has no need to move nor speak, and nor do I intend to drive him to convulsions, but it is vital that I speak with him.”

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, but nodded finally. “Hopper will see that father is ready to receive you,” she said.

The man bowed and withdrew, leaving them alone with only the little maid who had come to the Rutherglen house to fetch him days earlier. She was watching him wide-eyed, a piece of needlework lying forgotten in her lap. 

Jamie forced his attention away from Miss Maurice to approach the single painting that adorned the wall. It was a plain little landscape, but he studied it as if it were a masterpiece. Anything to keep from staring. 

“Bellamy tells me that some of our men are in attendance here, temporarily,” he lied, hoping the men had not mentioned who it was who truly gave their orders. “He believes that you have need of more than a red-haired butler.”

He heard her sit back down. “Do you reproach me, sir?” she asked mildly. “Do you reproach my father?”

“Lud, Miss Maurice,” he said, turning with a quick cautious smile. “So hostile?” He shook his head. “It is merely an observation.” He bowed, but just slightly enough to remain impertinent. “If I were impelled to reproach you, then my men would be withdrawn forthwith.” He hesitated then took a step or two towards her. “As it is, I take comfort in the knowledge that they are present.”

She looked at him, baffled. “Your Grace?”

“Well,” he said, smothering his amusement as best he could, “we cannot have you beating men with pokers again, Miss Maurice.” He leaned a little closer, his lips twitching, wondering if she would take his words well or ill. “If a gentleman comes to your father’s house, they must feel safe from your wicked arm.”

Her eyes widened with surprise, but she schooled herself well. The smile was sweet, gentle almost, and she folded her hands delicately on the table. “As you can see, your Grace,” she said, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes, “today, I have no poker.”

He pressed his hand to his heart, feigning relief. “For which,” he said fervently, “I am truly thankful, m’dear.” He bent closer. “I have no desire to be knocked on the crown.”

To his surprise and pleasure, he saw the way she bit down on a laugh, the way she averted her gaze, the way her lips twitched in a hidden smile, and his own smile returned.

It was just demmed ill-fortune that her father’s man chose that moment to return. “your Grace, the Viscount will see you now.”

Jamie looked at Miss Maurice, who had her eyes averted still. “Miss Maurice,” he said, calling upon her attention, and when she looked at him, he continued in all earnestness, “I assure you that I will not wear upon your father too greatly.”

She neither looked away, nor blinked, her gaze as steady as his own. “That is well,” she said, and he saw that same glimmer of mischief, “for if you do, I remind you that I shall have ready access to the parlour shortly, and all that lies within.”

He could not help but laugh. “I shall be on my best behaviour,” he said, bowing formally and elegantly, then swung about to face the man-servant, who was gawping at him. “Well, man?” he said tartly. “Shall you lead or must I find the way through the house myself?

The man flushed as red as his hair and bowed hastily. “This way, your Grace.”

Jamie followed him up the stairs, doing his utmost to hide his smile. It seemed that Miss Maurice had decided not to quail behind timid propriety and to lay the blade of her wit against his own. She had fire, indeed, and a ready mind. It was most admirable. 

He drew his attention back to the house as they approached the master bedroom.

It was as neat and sparsely-furnished as the rest of the house, with the same well-tended, inclining to shabby look. The paint was a little thin here and there, worn and faded, but to any giving only the most cursory of glances, it would hardly have been noticeable. 

The manservant knocked lightly on his master’s door, then showed Jamie in, moving ahead of him to stand at the head of his master’s bed.

Sir Maurice looked wretched, so much so that it brought Jamie up short. He had been pale on their first encounter, but now, he was deathly so, white as the pillows against which he was propped. His bloodless lips turned in a weary smile. 

“Your Grace,” he said. Even his voice had a rasping, unpleasant edge. One hand motioned weakly to a chair by the bedside. “Sit, please.”

Jamie did so without question, sinking into the seat. “Lud,” he said. “They said you were taken ill, but I had no notion it was severe.”

Sir Maurice chuckled hoarsely. “You begin with flattery, I see,” he said. One hand was resting on his chest, rubbing slowly. He watched Jamie thoughtfully. “I did not expect you.”

Jamie looked at him in frank astonishment. “I see you like so many others believe too many tales about me,” he said dryly. He opened the file in his hand and drew out the dispensation from the Archbishop. “I did not return sooner as it has taken me until now to gain the correct documentation.”

Sir Maurice and his man both stared at him.

The manservant leaned forward and took the paper, bringing it closer to his master’s eyes to allow him to read it. When he fluttered his hand, and the man returned it to Jamie, there was confusion in Sir Maurice’s eyes.

“You were in earnest?” he said.

Jamie snorted, leaning back in the chair and folding his arms across his chest. “You believe I run about town proposing to any woman who happens to stumble across my path?” he said. “Zooks! One would think I had been married a dozen times!”

A bell jangled somewhere else in the house.

“My Lord?” 

Sir Maurice waved his man away. “We shall be well here,” he said. “Go. Tend our guest.”

Jamie waited until the door was closed and looked back at Sir Maurice. “In answer to your question,” he said, “Yes. I was in earnest. I would wed your daughter.”

Cranbrook gazed at him. “Her name,” he said finally. “It is not on the dispensation.”

“And let me tell you, having that left out was a demmed nuisance,” Jamie said with a snort of irritation. “The impudent fellow all but stated that I had some young skirt, barely out of her infant’s robes with child!”

Sir Maurice eyed him. “But why leave it out?” he asked. “You intend to wed her.”

“Aye,” Jamie said, “but she has not yet stated that she intends to wed me. If she refuses, then her name need not be sullied by association with my own on the lips of the gossips. God knows I have provided them with fodder enough over the years. Yet another exploit at my door will hardly come as a surprise.”

The man’s blue eyes were intent on him. “That is remarkably considerate of you.”

Jamie huffed out a noisy breath. “Unlike some people I care to mention,” he said tartly, “I try to be a gentleman and do nothing that would disgrace a lady.”

Sir Maurice was silent for a long while, but for the rasp of his breathing. The fingers of the hand resting on his chest tapped lightly, thoughtfully. “How many of the tales are true, your Grace?” he asked finally. 

One side of Jamie’s mouth twitched up. “I will not deny that I stole my first wife from the altar,” he said. “I was nineteen and reckless with no title of my own, and she had no wish to be married to a stifling old cove. That aside, am I rude? Doubtless. Direct? Of course. Do I lack patience for fools? Indeed.” He shrugged. “You have spoken with me, Cranbrook. Will you base your opinion on the spiteful whispers of society?”

The other man chuckled hoarsely. “The more I see of you, the more I wonder,” he admitted. He studied Jamie thoughtfully. “What are your intentions towards my daughter?”

Jamie felt his colour rise. It was ridiculous that a man of a similar age to himself could make him blush like a maiden with such a simple question. “I-I only intend to keep her safe from Aston,” he said. “As I said, my son is fond of her.”

“Your son,” Sir Maurice murmured. “Yes. You mentioned.” There was an amused tilt to the man’s lips that made Jamie shift self-consciously. “Quite emphatically in fact.”

“Unfortunate, but true,” Jamie said, folding his arms.

Sir Maurice chuckled again, looking as if he were enjoying a private joke. “Then I am glad that he is fond of her,” he said with a significant look at Jamie. “I would be most displeased if she were to wed in a situation where he was not fond of her.”

Jamie could feel the blush right to his collar. He had not intended to be so transparent. “Yes,” he said. “Well. I will wed her if she will have me. If not, a suitable match will be found.”

Sir Maurice nodded slowly. “Might I read the dispensation again?”

Jamie held it out to him and sat back in silence as Cranbrook brought the page close to his face and examined every minutiae of it. 

“She will put her own name to it?” he finally asked.

“If her penmanship is an improvement on yours, then yes,” Jamie said dryly.

Sir Maurice shook his head in amusement. “And you have the gall to say she is a clawed cat,” he said, offering the paper back. 

Jamie couldn’t keep a rueful smile from his lips. “She mentioned that.”

“Mm.” Sir Maurice sank back against the pillows. “I fear I must dismiss you, your Grace. I must rest.”

“Aye, of course,” Jamie said, replacing the document in the folder and rising. “Tell me, my Lord, would you be well enough to rise tomorrow, or would you need a chair to be carried, if it is required?”

“Tomorrow?” Sir Maurice said, frowning. “What is tomorrow?”

Jamie’s lips curved. “Why, your daughter’s wedding, of course.”

Sir Maurice’s eyes widened. “Tomorrow?” he echoed hoarsely. “So soon?”

“The sooner you better to have her out of Aston’s reach, wouldn’t you say?” Jamie said mildly. “I have the dispensation, and if she grants her leave, then I will pay a call to Blanche to ask for the use of her chapel. Something private and discreet.”

“Lud…” Sir Maurice murmured. “You are well-prepared, your Grace.”

Jamie snorted in amusement. “This is naught,” he said. “Were I twenty years younger, I would have stolen her out of the window and away to Gretna.” He bowed civilly. “If you will excuse me, my Lord. I fear I must go and face your little tigress.”

Sir Maurice smiled wanly. “I am sure it will be… memorable,” he murmured.

Jamie all but bound back down the stairs.

Cranbrook’s man was standing by the door of the parlour.

“Well, then,” Jamie demanded, looking at him. The man seemed to startled at seeing a Duke take a staircase three at a time to speak. “Where is she?” His footfalls echoed on the tiles of the hall as Hopped hurried to the door. Jamie pushed around him impatiently. “Devil take you, man, move aside! I’m quite capable of opening a demmed door with my own two hands!”

He stopped short at the sight of his son sitting opposite Miss Maurice.

“Bellamy,” he said.

Bellamy stared back at him. “Father.”

Jamie stalked closer. “What the deuce are you doing here?” he demanded, though he had a suspicion he knew exactly.

Bellamy held up a sheet of paper. “Lady Eaglesham and I have been seeking a suitor for Miss Maurice,” he said. “We believed she ought to see those we have selected.” Jamie snatched the page, darting his eyes over the names. To his satisfaction, there was not a single one above the level of Marquis and every one of them was dull a ditchwater and completely unsuitable for Miss Maurice. Bellamy, however, looked pleased with himself. “There are a decent number.”

“Demmed nonsense,” Jamie snorted, crumpling the paper in his fist.

Miss Maurice exclaimed in astonishment and Bellamy stiffened his back. “Father! What in heaven’s name was that for?”

Jamie gave him a cool look. “None are suitable,” he said. 

Bellamy leapt to his feet. “Each one was more than suitable, father,” he said indignantly. “Give me the list.”

Jamie snorted once more and cast the paper into ash-thick grate. “It is not required, Bellamy,” he said. “I have been in concourse with the Viscount. I have put a proposal to him that he finds satisfying, and will not require the lady to marry some half-wit Baron.”

“The devil you say!” Bellamy exclaimed, staring at him, a dozen questions visible in his eyes. “Why have you not spoken of it?”

“Because,” Jamie replied evenly, “the matter was none of your concern.” He turned to Miss Maurice, who was staring at him with incredulity. “Miss Maurice, my apologies for my son’s show of temper.” His lips twitched. “I cannot imagine what causes him to be so.”

She looked back at him with that bright gleam in her eyes. “Indeed, sir,” she said, shifting her neatly-laced hands in her lap. “I cannot begin to guess where he might have learned such manners.”

Lud, she was marvellous!

Jamie smothered his smile. “Quite so.”

“Your business with my father is concluded?” she asked.

He hesitated and loathed himself for it. She was most likely to refuse, of course, because no decent lady would want to be bound to a man with his reputation, but if he did not ask, he would not know. It was better to be told outright than to live in forlorn hope.

“Very nearly so,” he finally said. “As I said, your father has professed an interest in the proposal I made, but we are both in agreement that as it will influence you, you may have the final word.”

She frowned in consternation, no doubt expecting some manner of business arrangement. “What manner of proposal is it?” she asked. 

His tongue darted along his lower lip. He touched the folder, remembering the dispensation within marked with only his name. If he did not ask, he would not know. And yet, the words trembled in his chest as he tried to give them voice.

He looked at her, her worried blue eyes in her bruised but still lovely face. “I would take you to wife, if you would accept my suit,” he said quietly.

Bellamy exploded in such a vivid display of profanity that Jamie was quite impressed. His son had clearly learned well from him. His eyes, however, remained on the lady before him.

Miss Maurice was staring at him as if he had sprouted a second head. “Your Grace?” she said with unusual uncertainty. “Are you in jest?”

“Not at all, Miss Maurice,” he said as steadily as he could. “I am in all earnestness.” He tore his gaze from her to glower at the cursing Bellamy. “Bellamy, please be silent. You are quite ruining the moment.”

His son‘s hands were flung up. “Father, what the deuce are you about?”

Jamie’s own breath was coming hard, whether from nervousness or anxiety he did not know, and he moved towards his son, his anchor, and grasped Bay’s shoulder. His voice was soft, and almost sounded calm, but that was only because if he spoke louder, the tremor would be audible and Miss Maurice would see him for the coward he was. “I am seeking the lady’s hand, my boy,” he said. “Do you believe her unworthy?”

Bay stared back at him, and slowly smiled, brightening the puzzlement in his eyes. “Odd’s fish, no, father, but I wonder if you are indeed worthy of her.”

They both looked at Miss Maurice, who was looking quite faint.

“I am not sure I understand, your Grace,” she said.

With his hand on Bay’s shoulder, and his son’s wordless support, Jamie felt more himself once more. “I am sure you do, m’dear,” he said. “You are no simpleton. The matter is this. You have a need to be wed. I have a desire to be wed once more. Our paths have crossed as a most opportune moment.”

His impudent son snorted. “A desire, indeed.”

“You lip is loose, boy,” Jamie said sharply, not wishing to frighten her. “Look to it.”

Her hands were shifting against her skirts uncertainly. “Your Grace, your rank is far above mine own.”

He nodded, watching her. “All the better to keep that scoundrel from your skirts,” he said, holding onto the folder and the dispensation for dear life.

She looked up at him, features rife with shame. “We have no dowry.”

Lud. The woman was afraid to be seen as a fortune-hunter? “As I said,” he replied with a nod. “I have spoken with the matter with your father. I have fortune enough. I do not need to rob a sick man of the little he has left.”

That was enough to make her lips part in astonishment. “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage, then,” she said. “My rank is mean, my fortune small, I am sharp, and born of a common French mother. Does this not mark me as unseemly as a wife?” She rose, clasping her hands together in front of her. “I believe you are taking pity on me.”

Jamie’s heart sank and he drew his expression into a more stern one to hide it. “You would refuse, then?”

She lifted her chin with what little pride she had left to her. “I would not have you wed me out of pity,” she said.

He stared at her and snorted in disbelief. “If you believe my heart is so kind, then you are a fool after all,” he said sharply. “I would not wed even the Queen out of pity, if she brought with her all the jewels in the treasury.” He stepped closer to her, almost invasively so, and cast his folder upon a chair. One of his hands captured both of hers, lifting them. “I ask you in earnest, Miss Maurice, without pity or compassion, for you to be my wife.”

All at once, he was aware of how soft and small her hands were in his, and she looked at them, then up at him, her eyes clear and the brightest blue. 

“Truly?” she asked.

He clasped her hands and rolled his eyes, wondering if she intended to torment him so for all eternity. “Are you still addled from the blow to your head, woman?” he demanded. “Will you answer the demmed question?”

She stared at him for what felt like hours, and he wondered what she sought, for all he could think was that his fear, his hope, his desperate longing for her was written upon his face and would drive her from him.

“Yes, your Grace,” she said, and his heart leapt as if it might burst from his chest. “I will marry you.”

Before he could think, he lifted her hands to his lips, more relieved than he could ever believe possible. “Good,” he whispered.


	7. Chapter 7

Miss Maurice saw them to the door.

She had a somewhat dazed look on her face that Jamie was quite sure was not entirely the fault of her head wound. She was smiling, however, which he considered a good sign. She did not find the concept of marriage to him repugnant, which was something of a relief. 

He and Bellamy stood on the pavement outside the house. "What will you now, father?" Bellamy inquired. The boy clearly had an abundance of questions, none of which Jamie was willing or able to yet answer.

"I will visit the Eaglesham house," he replied. "I have matters to discuss with Blanche."

"Yes," Bellamy snorted. "Not least the fact that you placed your ace upon our carefully constructed hand of cards."

Jamie unlashed Bucephalus from the railing. "Fah! You think I have reason to show my hand to any but myself? You know that is not how the game is played."

"And what game, pray, are you playing, father?"

Jamie looked at his son. "That, we can discuss at a later date," he said, slipping his file within the saddlebag slung across the horse's back, and mounting. "I will be home this evening."

Before his son could speak further, he spurred Bucephalus away.

His heart felt like it was still racing as he hurtled through town. While he held the license and had the noblest of intentions, he had never imagined she would truly concede, and he knew if he stopped to think on matters, he would bring himself up short. He was to be married, and the sooner it was arranged, the sooner matters were out of his hands, the sooner he could allow himself to panic.

The Eaglesham townhouse was fortunately not too far, and a servant dashed out to take care of Bucephalus almost as soon as Jamie rapped at the door. 

Jamie was shown into the parlour, where the Marchioness greeted him with no small measure of puzzlement. She was in her house dress, and her hair was loose, not yet drawn up for the day.

"You seem in an awful dash," she observed, as he flung himself into the seat opposite her. "What brings you to my door so early?"

"Early?" He stared at her. "Lud, woman, it is close upon noon!"

"Indeed," she said with a mild smile. "As I said, early for civilised people."

Jamie rolled his eyes. Life in the country was much more fitting for him, with people up with the birds. "That makes no nevermind," he said curtly. "I have a need of a small favour."

A maid appeared, bearing a tea tray and laid out tea for them both, much to Jamie's frustration. He could feel Blanche's eyes on him, and knew her curiosity was burning hot. She waited until the maid withdrew, then poured them both tea and only when the china was gripped in his hand did she ask, "What small favour?"

"You have a chapel on your estate, do you not?"

Blanche's cup stopped halfway to her lips. She frowned, lowering the cup. "We do," she said. "Lud, Jamie, tell me you do not intend to elope with some Royal!"

Jamie scowled. "Not in the least," he snapped. "You should be well aware of the party in question. You have been seeking a match for her for days."

For once, Blanche was speechless. She set down her cup on the table. "You tell me you intend to wed Miss Maurice? You?" She narrowed her eyes at him. "Is she aware of this?"

Jamie could feel his colour rise. "Damnation, woman!" he snarled. "Do you think I would not ask?"

Blanche stared at him. "Lud, Jamie. I had no notion you were so taken with her."

He sank back in the chair, glaring at her. "You did not see what that brute Aston did to her," he said. "If it means she is safe from him, I would wed her a dozen times over."

Blanche's expression turned grave. "Bellamy mentioned she was struck."

"Ha! The woman was all blood when I reached her," he said darkly. "Aston was only fortunate my attention was more on her well-being than his ill health." He drummed the fingers of his free hand on his knee. "So, your chapel?"

"As long as Miss Maurice is agreeable, I see no reason why not," Blanche said with a quick smile. "When do you have in mind?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

The gracious Marchioness almost sprayed her tea across the table. "Tomorrow?" she coughed damply. "Lud! That is rather soon! You will need..."

"A dispensation," Jamie interrupted. "Yes, yes. I have one of those. The Archbishop saw me this morning." He took a mouthful of tea, then set the cup down. "The man had the impudence to accuse me of running off with a scullery maid or some such nonsense."

"Well, you are rather known for being scandalous," Blanche said, dabbing her lips with her kerchief.

Jamie snorted, folding his arms over his chest. "Would you rather see Aston bring his lawyers about her and her father?" he demanded. "You have said yourself that the Cranbrooks are decent people. Aston has got it into his head to contest breach of contract with her father."

"And if she is a Duchess, it rather outranks a Baron's heir," Blanche said with a nod. "Of course." She looked at him shrewdly. "I am surprised you did not simply marry her off to Bellamy."

Jamie stared at her. Of course, it would have been a more logical solution, and Bellamy would probably not have objected, but binding one as lovely as Miss Maurice to his son who had no more interest in her than he would in a block of wood, was a travesty. "Bellamy would have none," he lied.

"I see," she said. She folded her hands together. "So, you would require a chapel and a minister of some variety? Would you have me make calls?"

"With discretion, mark you," Jamie warned. "Miss Maurice is not to be troubled."

Blanche smiled quietly. "I would never have known you as a gentleman, Jamie," she said, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "Where has this softer side appeared from?"

He curled his lip derisively. "Just because you do not see it, do not imagine I am a man without layers."

Blanche laughed softly. "And would you have a wedding supper?"

He frowned. "I had not thought upon it."

"Indeed," she observed. "You have been a little busy harassing the Archbishop." She tapped her fingertips together. "I believe my husband and I can arrange for some small dinner. I trust it will be a minimal gathering? Yourself, Bellamy, the Cranbrooks. Anyone else?"

"Save you and your husband, no one," Jamie admitted, "though if you wish to contact Miss Maurice regarding her own guests of choice, that is your prerogative."

"I suppose it is somewhat short notice to contact the Dowager Duchess."

Jamie was silent for a time. Regina. He had not thought on how she might view the marriage. Indeed, he had not thought on her at all, save the occasions when Bellamy brought her up at dinner. "She does not need to know presently," he said.

"Hm."

Jamie rose. "Hm all you will," he said. "She is my stepmother, and accordingly, I will inform her as and when I choose." He bowed formally. "Thank you for your assistance in this matter, my Lady."

"Tush," she said, rising also. "Miss Maurice is a charming little thing. You had best treat her kindly, your Grace, else I will know the reason why."

He scowled at her. "You believe I would be afraid of one such as you, my Lady?"

She smiled, sweet and serene as an angel. "Always fear the kindest people, your Grace," she said, "for it takes a great deal to make them angry, but when they are..." She shook her head. "You do not wish to see my wrath unleashed, your Grace. It is not a pleasant sight."

"I will keep that in mind," he replied, bowing again. "Until tomorrow, my Lady."

"Until tomorrow," she agreed.

Jamie stepped out into the street, taking a breath. Now that there was a location, a time, and a dispensation, it felt somehow more real, more concrete. On the morrow, he would be wed to Miss Isabelle Maurice, daughter of the Viscount of Cranbrook. Tomorrow, he would have a wife. 

He tried to think beyond that, what he might require or what she might. The dresses he had ordered were likely due to be delivered at any moment, but he had not yet bought rings. It was as good a diversion as any, and he mounted Bucephalus to turn back towards town. 

It was late in the afternoon when he finally returned home.

Henry met him at the door, with a face like a slapped arse.

"What the deuce has pulled your face so?" Jamie demanded, as Bucephalus was led away by the groom.

"There were some items delivered, your Grace," Henry replied. "They were taken up to the second bedroom on the first level. Master Bellamy was curious."

Jamie groaned, shedding his coat upon the banister and dashing up the stairs. The door of the second bedroom was wide open and he could see Bellamy poking through his purchases.

"So this is what you were about the other day," his son said without turning. He was holding up the cream and gold dress, scrutinising it. "You went dashing off into town and none could tell me what you were about, and now, I find that not only have you been shopping, but you have spent quite the fortune."

Jamie's hands twitched by his sides. "Aye, I have," he said. "In case you had not noticed, Miss Maurice wears elegant gowns, but not a one of them is without patching or fraying. She was in need of new gowns."

His son turned to look at him. "And all this done before you even proposed to her?" he said. There was a lightness in his tone that put Jamie's back up. "Lud, father, you really have turned soft for your little cat, haven't you?"

Jamie's hands tightened into fists. "The woman deserves better than she had," he snapped.

"And had she turned you down, you would have half a dozen gorgeous frocks and not a woman to put them in."

"They would have served just as well as a wedding gift," Jamie said through clenched teeth. "I would not see the demmed woman go off in rags to some Baron or Marquis's nephew."

Bellamy held up the dress, examining it critically. "Soft," he declared. "I do believe you might like Miss Maurice, far more than I anticipated."

"Fah!" Jamie folded his arms. "Do I seem so sentimental?"

Bellamy looked over his shoulder at his father. "Yes, by God!" he said, turning and holding out the dress. "You deplore fashion. You will not allow me to make this house as beautiful as it might be. You dress in clothes you have owned for years. And then, this pretty little goose beats a man about the head, and all at once, you are throwing gold into a dressmaker's coffers and buying dozens of the most fashionable gowns for her."

Jamie felt his colour rising and bit down on his tongue, scowling at his son.

Bellamy looked at the dress again. "I had hoped you would find her charming," he said with a crooked smile. "Lud, papa. Have you any notion how long it has been since I have seen you truly smiling?"

Jamie eyed his son with suspicion. "You intended for me to be drawn to her?"

"And light through yonder window breaks," Bellamy said with a chuckle. "Papa, why the devil do you think I kept bringing interesting young ladies through the house when you were present? You scared half of them off by acting like an inconsiderate clod!"

Jamie opened and shut his mouth in astonishment. "Bellamy! You mean you have beem matchmaking me?"

"Attempting it," Bellamy replied shamelessly. "Lud, father, you are a decent, if somewhat tempestuous man. Why should you not want a wife?"

"I should have you thrashed!" Jamie said indignantly.

"And yet, you are the one who chose to propose to Miss Maurice," his son replied tartly. "You did not even realise my intentions until I told you. Everything you have done, you have elected to do yourself." He looked at the dress in his hands. "Including spending a fortune on clothes."

Jamie glowered. "Consider that your punishment, then," he growled.

"For finding you a suitable wife?" Bellamy said indignantly. "Papa, you are a beast! You know how I love to buy beautiful things!"

"I did not ask you to find me a wife!" Jamie retorted.

"And I did not force you to propose to her!" Bellamy replied. "Have you any notion how much planning a wedding will take? Do you even have a date in mind?"

"Of course I do," Jamie said. "Blanche is arranging for us to use her chapel tomorrow."

Bellamy gaped at him. He looked down at the dress, then carefully set it back down. "Papa," he said calmly. "I would have some of my allowance if you don't mind."

"What for?" Jamie asked suspiciously. 

Bellamy stalked closer to him, a formidable gleam in his eyes that was not unlike his mother's. "Because you and I are going into my tailors, and we are going to make you look like a respectable groom if it demmed well kills me."


	8. Chapter 8

It was the day of the wedding.

Jamie could not recall an occasion when he had felt more nervous in his life. 

Even when he and Eliza had eloped, there had been no nervousness, but then, he and Eliza had been friends for many months before he had decided to rescue her from what was bound to be a desperately unhappy marriage. They had laughed all the way to Gretna, without stopping to think of the repercussions.

Youth, he mused, as he tied his cravat. It allowed for blissful ignorance, whereas maturity brought all the fears and concerns of reality. 

"How do you fare, father?" Bellamy enquired as he strolled into the chamber. They were at the Eaglesham house, in one of the many guest rooms. Jamie ignored him, glowering at his reflection and his son sighed hugely. "Lud, papa, what the deuce did that cravat ever do to you?" He tugged Jamie about to face him and set to work unravelling the tangle of the cravat and retying it for him. 

They were silent for a long while, and Jamie finally asked quietly, "Am I doing wrong by Miss Maurice, Bay?"

His son looked at him in astonishment. "What nonsense are you about now?"

"The woman had been beaten senseless by a demmed unpleasant cove," Jamie replied. "Given that her reputation, even her and her father's life, were on the line, do you not think she felt pressed to accept out of desperation?"

Bellamy's hands stilled on the cravat and he looked at his father sternly. "You are an incomprehensible imbecile sometimes, papa," he said. "Did you not listen to a word she said? She is not wedding you out of desperation any more than you are wedding her out of pity."

"Fah!"

Bellamy snorted in amusement. "Papa, unless I'm blind, the woman is fond of you."

Jamie stared at his son in disbelief. "Now I know you jest."

"Think what you will," Bellamy said airily. "I am of the firm belief that you amuse Miss Maurice as much as she amuses you." he stepped back, putting his head to one side and examining Jamie critically. "You look almost elegant. What do you intend to do with your hair? Have you decided?"

"Lud, Bellamy," Jamie grumbled, as he drew on his coat. "I am no fancy man to be dressed up so."

Bellamy sighed. "Sometimes, father, I wonder if we are related at all." He reached into his pocket and drew out a ribbon. "Turn about. I shall tie your hair out of your face. It would not do to look like a half-wild creature."

In the end, he had to admit that Bellamy had chosen his outfit well. Jamie examined himself from head to toe. The suit was brand new, impeccable, and far more elegant than anything he would have chosen himself. He glanced at his son. "Will I suffice?"

"You will at that," Bellamy said, pleased. "Now we ought to hurry to the chapel. The carriage is almost here."

Jamie nodded, adjusting his cuffs, and followed his son out into the hall. It felt simpler to let someone else steer his footsteps until the ceremony was done and his mind could whirr down to a more sedate pace. There were too many concerns, anxieties, possibilities rushing through his mind to let him think.

Eaglesham himself was waiting there. "Nervous, old boy?" he asked, ushering Jamie to the altar.

"Do I seem a nervous type?" Jamie snapped irritably, fidgeting with his cuffs again.

Eaglesham just chuckled and slapped him firmly on the shoulder. "Good luck."

The doors opened and Jamie turned to see Cranbrook being carried in on a lightweight sedan chair. The man looked better than he had in previous days, though he was still uncommonly pale. Jamie nodded tersely too him, his heart thundering.

"Sir Maurice," he said.

"Your Grace," the Viscount acknowledged. "She is approaching."

Jamie nodded, swallowing hard, and clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from trembling. 

Miss Maurice entered the chapel on the Marchioness's arm, and Jamie felt his breath quite catch in his chest. She was attired in a dress that must have been the height of fashion once, and it suited her beautifully. Even with the bruises and her wounded brow, she looked every inch a lady. She met his eyes briefly, then flushed and lowered her gaze, murmuring something to Blanche.

The Marchioness was smiling when she reached the altar. She took Miss Maurice's hand in her own and looked at Jamie. "Your hand, your Grace," she murmured.

Jamie's hands were laced so tightly behind him that it took a moment to untangle them the one from the other. He held it out, and to both his relief and his surprise, Miss Maurice laid her fingers lightly in his, unguided. He closed his fingers gently about them, watching the way hers curled against his, then raised his gaze to seek hers. 

She looked up at him, her eyes clear and bright and close enough to make his heart pound like a drum.

"Miss Maurice," he heard himself say, as if he were listening from a thousand miles away.

Her tongue darted along her lips. "Your Grace," she whispered. She looked as nervous as he felt.

Jamie gently squeezed her fingers, as if it could provide some manner of comfort to both of them. "If you have no objections," he offered, giving her the last chance to retreat from the altar, from the chapel, from binding herself to him, "shall we proceed?"

Her eyes were on his face, searching his features, and in his heart of hearts, he hoped she would stay. He knew it was ridiculous and probably a mere infatuation, but he wanted her by his side, his little cat with her sharp, clever claws. He wanted to see what she looked like when she smiled, truly smiled, rather than the polite little turn of the lips she showed to most. He wanted to hear her laughter.

It felt like an eternity before she brought up her other hand to join the first. She smiled at him, soft, shy and small. "Yes, your Grace."

Jamie did not remember an instant of the ceremony. He said the words when he was meant to, and placed the ring when he had to, but all he could do was gaze at the woman who was being bound to him as his wife. She blushed under his scrutiny, and unlike him, paid heed to the priest. She did not draw her hand from his, though. That boded well, Jamie hoped, if she was not repelled by him. 

Only when the ceremony was all but done did she lift her eyes to his once more. Her smile was so shy, so gentle, that he was quite sure his heart might stop. He bowed low over her hand, letting his lips barely graze her the back of her bare hand.

Blanche made some noise about a drawing room, and all at once, the chapel was emptied of everyone save him and his new wife.

He saw the sudden fear that flooded her features, and could quite imagine why. That same fear had lit her eyes when she believed Aston had come calling. For the first time since that unfortunate day, she was alone with a man, and he was determined to be as unlike that brute as was possible. 

Her hand was resting lightly in his and he let his fingertip brush the ring upon her finger, the reminder that she was now bound to him and safely so. But how to approach? He remembered their last private conversation, before the engagement. "I fear I must ask," he said, keeping his voice as grave as he could, "have you a poker hidden beneath your skirts?"

She stared at him as if he might have sprouted a second head, then laughed that lovely musical laugh, stifling it with her free hand. "No, your Grace," she said, blushing prettily.

"Hmm." He feigned contemplation, holding her hand securely enough to hide the tremor in his own. "Then as it is safe," he said, his voice as steady as he could make it, "would it be permitted for me to kiss you, wife?"

He could all but see her heart racing. "Yes, your Grace," she whispered, then wet her lips again and breathed, "Husband."

his hands tightened briefly about hers, reminding him of the need for patience, for gentleness. He leaned closer and brushed a kiss across her undamaged cheek. Her perfume filled his senses, and he lingered only a moment too long as he murmured her name for the first time, "Thank you, Isabelle."

By God, but she was beautiful. He knew he was gazing at her with all the awe of a supplicant, and forced himself to draw back, offering her his arm.

"We should join our hosts," he said reluctantly. "I fear the Lady Eaglesham would come and drag us by out very ears if we do not make our presence known."

Isabelle cautiously murmured, "They will wish to make their congratulations."

Jamie huffed. "Aye, dem their hides," he grumbled, then glanced at her, hoping she was not taking ill-favour from his mood. "I'faith, I wager they would celebrate the drop of a hat, if it meant they might throw a small banquet."

She was watching him from beneath her lashes, assessing him. No wonder, he mused, for he was known for his changeable temper. "Perhaps," she said after a moment of thought, "you might drop a hat, then, to gauge their response?"

He could not stifle a snort of amusement, his lips twitching. "Alas, little cat," he said, "I cannot, for I have no hat to hand."

She ducked her head and he saw her cheek dimple. "Then," she said, "I fear you must accept their congratulations in good humour, as there is naught else to distract them."

He snorted again, and patted her hand lightly, where it rested on his arm. "The congratulations you can keep," he murmured, and though he did not look to her, he could not keep the fondness from his tone. "You are deserving of some little happiness."

It was too much of an outburst he felt, and he did not speak again until they reached the drawing room. Their hosts and her father awaited them, and Bellamy descended on her at once, kissing her hand profusely. 

"I have never been more delighted to have a new mama," he declared, clasping her hand to his heart.

Isabelle laughed helplessly. "Thank you, my Lord."

"No, no, no!" Bellamy said, shaking his head. "You must not call me that any longer, your Grace." Isabelle's eyes widened at the use of her title. "You must call me Bay!"

Jamie startled. That name was only used by the closest of family and loyalest of friends, and Bay did not offer it lightly. "Your name is Bellamy, idiot boy," he snapped, far more sharply than he intended.

"Aye," Bellamy said, laughing. "But I would be called Bay." He leaned closer to Isabelle, ignoring his father's glare. "I find it much more dashing."

Jamie made his way to the window, looking out on the grounds. It was only a precautionary marriage. That was the fact he had clung to. But Bay was making damned sure that Isabelle felt part of the family, and that did not speak of precautionary affairs to him. He watched their reflections in the glass, watched her being fussed upon by Blanche.

"I cannot fathom," he heard his son say, "how one such as he produced one such as I."

“The fall from your horse onto your head when you were but seven years old would about do it,” Jamie said stiffly.

It was all very well to be wed, and to a woman such as Isabelle, but to play at social niceties was not a part of the arrangement. As much as he would that he could whisk Isabelle away, he also wished Bucephalus was waiting, that he might ride like the wind for the border.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching her speak with her father, though he feigned otherwise when Bellamy wandered over in his direction.

"You hardly seem happily wed, papa," he murmured, leaning against the edge of the window. "Do you regret it already?"

Jamie folded his arms tight upon his chest. "It is merely a business arrangement," he said quietly.

"Stuff and nonsense," Bellamy murmured. He squeezed his father's shoulder. "Come along, old man. At least act as if you're happy to be wed to the woman." He offered a conspiratorial smile. "I know you are."

One side of Jamie's mouth tilted up. "Perhaps," he agreed.

He let Blanche usher them through to dinner. Isabelle was set at his side, and he could see her eyes widen at the extent of the veritable feast that was spread before them. It seemed that the Cranbrook fortunes had sunk so low that so sumptuous a meal was dazzling to her senses. Indeed, he had to subtly guide her hand through the extensive spread of cutlery by touching his own, lest she use the wrong fork or some other scandalous misbehaviour. Such as wedding a Duke.

Games were played, and though he involved himself sparingly, his attentions seldom drifted from his bride. It was only when her father proved too weary to continue that she excused herself to bid him both good night and farewell for the present. 

"Will you not set off soon, father?" Bellamy inquired. "It will shortly be dusk, and your Lady wife has had a long day."

"We shall depart when the lady is demmed well ready," Jamie snapped, trying not to think of what might lie ahead when they left the Eaglesham house. The journey to his home, unaccompanied, would be trial enough, but then there was the wedding night to think upon and that made his head spin.

It was purely a business arrangement and he had no right to think or expect anything more of it. 

It was only when Blanche's demmed husband started making noises about using the last of the light to return to town that Jamie acknowledged that he and his wife should likely depart.

He tried to make light of the matter, seeing how pale she went. "It think they would be rid of us, my Lady," he said with an expressive roll of his eyes.

Bellamy raised his glass, of which he had already indulged in many. "One might think you would want to be rid of us," he said jovially, though he flushed at once, realising how crude his words had been before Isabelle.

Jamie rose sharply. "Excuse my son's manner, my Lady," he said, offering her the most civil bow he could. She was flushed about the cheeks, looking up at him. "I believe we should take mine host's advice and depart before the conversation turns." He shot a glare at his son. "And I have no doubt it shall."

Bellamy smiled sheepishly at him. "Indeed it would," he agreed, for they both knew how loose-lipped Bay became when in his cups. 

Isabelle was quite flushed and looked tentatively at Blanche. She returned her gaze to Jamie and said shyly, "If I may have a few moments to make my toilette, then we may depart."

Jamie blinked, startled at such agreeable acquiescence. He masked it as well as he could, bowing again. "Very well, my Lady," he murmured.

Isabelle rose, folding her hands demurely. "Lady," she began, then hesitated, wet her lips. Her new station, it seemed, would take some time to grow accustomed to. "Blanche, might you show me to a suitable room?"

The ladies departed and Jamie stalked towards Bellamy.

"I ought to thrash you," he snapped. "Could you not keep a civil tongue in your head?"

Bellamy grinned up at him. "If I had," he said, "you would never have left and mama would remain a blushing bride."

Jamie caught him by the cravat, hauling him to his feet. "Do not speak of her in such terms," he snarled. "My wife is a gentle lady and will be treated as such."

The Marquis put his arm between them. "Now, gentlemen," he said. "This is hardly the time, and young Bellamy may be speaking rather more freely than he otherwise might."

Bellamy nodded gravely. "In vino veritas," he said sagely, tottering back to fall onto the couch again. He gave his father a drunken, sleepy smile. "I'm sure you will have a lovely evening, papa."

Jamie harrumphed in indignation and stamped away to glare out of the window.

It was some half an hour later before his wife joined him in the lobby, in readiness to depart. Blanche had loaned her a warm cloak, and she looked quite at peace and even more lovely than he had recalled. He approached her, drawing the hood up. His fingertips grazed the very edge of her jaw, her skin smooth and soft as a peach, and he had to pause to catch his breath, swallowing hard and darting his tongue along his lips.

"Are you ready, my Lady?" he asked, his voice a little rougher than it had been. 

She hesitated for what felt like moments, but could only have been seconds, then nodded. His heart leapt strangely when she held out her dainty hand, palm down, to him. It took him an instant to remember to lift his own hand to catch it, and felt her warm, soft fingers curl against his. He could not help but stare at their linked hands for a moment, then forced his eyes to her face.

"Your carriage, my Lady," he murmured, leading her out into the courtyard.

It was a demmed shame that Bellamy had charge of the carriage in London, and when he heard her gasp at the sight of the interior, he could only begin to imagine the worst.

"I find it resembles a boudoir," he said wryly. "I fear it does little to ease the road, well-upholstered as it is."

His lady wife looked at him with a small, dimpling smile. "It is better than a wooden seat, I am sure," she said, settling in the forward-facing seat. "I will not complain about cushions compared to that."

It was purely self-indulgent that he chose to sit opposite her, for the fading daylight would illuminate her and he liked nothing more than to simply look at her. They sat in silence as the carriage all but flew out of the Eaglesham estate and swept along the roads towards town. Isabelle looked out of the window, the late evening sunlight casting her in hues of gold. 

It was some half hour into the journey when he noticed her turning her ring about her finger. It was a nervous gesture, he thought, which suggested she might be worried. Or that the ring was loose.

"Is the ring too large?" he asked abruptly. She jolted, startled. 

"Your Grace?"

That was like being doused in ice-water and he flicked his hand irritably. “I am no longer your Grace, woman,” he said a little more sharply than he intended. “You call Bellamy by his name and Lady Eaglesham, and yet, your demmed husband, you insist on calling by his title.”

She looked suddenly anxious and he regretted his tone at once. "What would you have me call you, then?" she asked tentatively.

He exhaled, trying to calm himself. It would do no good to terrorise her with his temper. "I have a name," he said as calmly as he could. "Have you not considered that?"

She looked at him, boldly. "I had," she murmured, watching him. "I did not know if you would wish me to call you so."

The idea of her speaking his name had not even occurred to him, but he shrugged. "It would suffice," he said.

She took a small, delicate breath. "Very well," she whispered, "James."

It sent a strange and delightful thrill the length of his spine, and he sank back into the shadows, grateful she could not see the wondering look on his face.

There was a rumbling quiet for several moments.

"What was your question?"

He stirred himself, startled. "Mm?"

She had her head to one side and was looking at him. "You were asking," she said, "before I called you 'Your Grace'."

He thought urgently, trying to recall. “Ah. Yes." He sat up a little straighter. "You were fidgeting with your demmed band. If it’s too large, I shall have it adjusted.”

“Oh! No,” she said at once, holding up her hand, letting him see the gleaming band he had chosen so carefully for her. “It fits quite perfectly. It is only that I like to have something to occupy my hands.” She ventured a smile. “Now, I have something that I might occupy myself at all times.”

He made a small, relieved sound, and folded his arms upon his chest, letting the silence settle once more. 

Some little of the tension in the air seemed to have been lifted, and he contented himself watching her as long as daylight allowed. It was nightfall by the time they reached London, and the gas lamps that lined the streets slanted fingers of light through the window as they passed by.

Isabelle was nibbling on her lower lip as they came closer to Scotland Yard, and he heard her catch her breath as the carriage came to a halt outside his home. He threw the door open, kicking the step down to descend. He turned and held up his hand to help Isabelle descend.

Her hand was cool in his, chilled by the ride, and he held it fast to warm it as the door of the house opened. 

Henry pulled the door wide.

"May I present her Grace, the Duchess of Rutherglen, Henry," Jamie said, savouring the shape of the words on his lips. 

Henry bowed deeply. "Your Grace. You are most welcome." He stepped forward to divest her of her travelling cloak and she looked so startled, wide-eyed and lovely.

"Thank you," she said timidly. Her fingers tightened on his, and his eyes moved to her instantly. She looked up at him imploringly. "Might we retire?" she asked in a small voice. "I am somewhat weary."

He was sure she would be able to hear his heart drumming, for it was all he could hear.

"Of course," he made himself say, stroking his thumb comfortingly along the back of her hand. It seemed it did not serve its purpose, making her tremble instead. Jamie swallowed hard, leading her up the staircase, towards the master bedroom.

The room had been readied for some time, it seemed, with the candles burning low and the room warmed by the fire. He released her hand, crossing the floor to the small table by the window. He needed to catch his breath, speak calmly and sensibly and not think that the loveliest woman had encountered in some years was standing in his room, tied to him by matrimony. 

"Bellamy will doubtless wax lyrical about the unfashionable furnishings," he said, reaching blindly for the decanter of whisky. 

"I think it is lovely," she murmured.

Jamie's lips twitched. Of course she would: a house where the walls were not patched and repainted to hide damage and cracks would seem like heaven itself. He brought the decanter to the rim of one of the glasses, silently cursing his hand as it shook, rattling the decanter against the glass.

"There is a matter, my Lady," he said quietly, setting down the decanter and staring blindly out of the window. "Something we must speak of before the evening proceeds."

He heard her draw a small breath. "Very well," she said. 

Jamie turned, two glasses in his hands and approached her. She was holding herself erect and proud, but she was pale and he could see the way she clasped her hands nervously before her. He offered one of the glasses to her. Her eyes flicked to it and back.

"You may find it fortifies your nerve," he said quietly, taking his own advice and draining the contents of his glass in one gulp. It did little to help, save for adding some little warmth.

Isabelle cradled the glass between her hands, and when he motioned to one of the chairs by the fire, she sank to sit in one of them. He sat down in the opposite chair, propping his empty glass between the arm of the chair and the fingertip. 

His heart was still beating far too fast, and the echo of it almost pushed a tremor into his tongue.

He swallowed down hard, and finally managed to speak. "You are my wife now," he said. "It is binding and legal in the eyes of the Church and the eyes of the law."

He saw her tremble and wondered if she truly regretted their union already. The boldness he admired in her seemed to have been quashed by dread. Yet, her eyes remained on his face in a steady gaze. Not so afraid, but verging upon it, then. 

"I understand," she whispered.

Jamie tapped his fingertip on the edge of the glass, frowning at it, trying to find the words to continue delicately. "It is only considered... a whole marriage, if there are..." He glanced at her, the blushing bride, and looked away, feeling his own colour rise. "To put it crudely," he forced the words out, "there is the matter of consummation."

If she had blushed before, she went quite crimson and lifted the glass to her lips.

She choked on the liquor and at once, Jamie was on one knee by her chair, saving the glass from her hand. He rubbed her back as much as he could through her gown, until the coughing fit passed. She blinked at him. 

"What was that?" she asked hoarsely.

"Whisky," he said ruefully, glancing down at the glass. "I did not intend to poison you, little cat." He put his hands on the arms of the chair, intending to rise, but froze when her little hand touched his shoulder.

“Please,” she said, guiding boldness into a voice that was trembling, “what would you have me do?”

He had already leaned forward to rise, and that had brought their faces so close together. His eyes darted across her face, seeing no fear, only genuine consternation.

His voice felt like it was struggling to escape. "I wish for you to do nothing," he said quietly, unable to ignore the warmth of her fingertips through his shirt and waistcoat. "This marriage will protect you, dearie, but I would not have you give up your virtue to me simply because I am able to protect you." He lowered his eyes unable to look at her, unable to let her see how much he longed for her to accept him. "If you find another," he continued quietly, "someone younger, more to your tastes, then an annulment may be arranged." His lips twitched in a brief, wan smile, and he raised his eyes to her face, offering her the key to the shackle of matrimony. "None would query it, if the marriage were not consummated."

Isabelle stared at him for so many heartbeats he felt quite dizzy.

All at once, her fingers curled against his shoulder, and her other hand moved to cover his on the arm of the chair. He looked to it, startled, and his tongue darted along his lip when he returned his gaze to her. He swallowed hard and knew he was trembling. 

"I am your wife, James," she said. Her voice was quivering, but her head was up, her expression certain, and had he not loved her before, he would have fallen to his knees and worshipped her then. "Your wife, if you will have me."

If you will have me...

Lud above...

"Isabelle," he whispered, closing that little distance between them and bringing his lips to hers in the softest of caresses. She shook to her very toes, and he whispered in wondering disbelief, "My Isabelle."

Her eyes met his, and he could feel her breath, small puffs, against his skin. The hand upon his shoulder rose and he caught his breath through parted lips as she brushed back the loose strands of hair from his cheek. She was looking at him with fondness, such fondness as he had never seen before. 

A smile touched her eyes and dimpled her cheeks. "My James," she breathed.

Had the King himself strode into the room and demanded that Isabelle Goldacre be permitted to depart, James would have ignored him utterly, lost in the woman's eyes. She did not wish to flee him, nor reject him, and he could scarcely believe it as she slipped softly into his arms and parted her lips to his kisses.


	9. Chapter 9

Jamie Goldacre had a wife.

The very concept was dizzying to say the least. 

Lady Isabelle Goldacre, Duchess of Rutherglen, was asleep beside him. She was his lady now. There was no question of that. Despite her bashfulness, she had allowed him to disrobe her, unlacing the gown with hands made clumsy by nervousness. She had watched him with cautious interest and when he tangled himself in knots, she helped him undo them.

She was beautiful. By God, she was beautiful.

It had been enough to see her down to her corset and bloomers, but the pale flesh beneath had almost been enough to make his heart stop, and all he could think to say was that she was lovely, for fear that his gawping silence might frighten her. She had blushed then, a pretty rose tinting even across her shoulders.

He had not hoped or imagined she would be so welcoming a wife, but she was, and some little of the fire he had adored in her from the first moment they met was there, only held in check by her maiden modesty.

When she found her confidence, he had no doubt she would be a tigress.

But for now, she slept, the back of one hand resting against the pillow beside her cheek, her lashes dark smudges against the paleness of her skin.

Jamie propped himself, his arm against the pillow, gazing at her.

He had slept little himself, too rapt with fascination in the lovely little lady currently resting in his bed. Though there was little light, it meant he was awake when her brow furrowed and she made a soft, distressed sound.

Dreaming, no doubt.

Jamie leaned over to light one of the candles, and had barely done so when his lady wife cried out in terror. She was thrashing about as if something was holding her, and he had no doubts as to who was troubling her dreams.

He caught her by the arms as gently as he could, calling out her name, but she struck out, the scream almost soundless in its fear and he shook her harder. It was merciless, but better that than leaving her trapped in her nightmares. “Isabelle! Isabelle, wake up!”

Her eyes flew open, her nails biting into his shoulders through his nightshirt, and she stared at him, panting. He was holding her firm and fast, but loose enough that she could escape if she needed or wished to. 

Jamie released her arm and lifted his hand to her cheek, stroking the tear-stained skin. “It was only a nightmare,” he murmured, his voice rougher than he would have liked. “You have naught to fear, little cat. Sheath your claws.”

Her fingertips brushed searchingly against his face, as if to be sure she was awake. “Aston,” she whispered.

Jamie’s expression darkened and he brought up his hand to cover hers. “I begin to see the appeal in Bellamy’s idea of drumming the rogue onto the first ship to the colonies,” he said, softening his tone so as not to frighten her further. He kissed her soft palm, then leaned over her to brush his lips against the wound on her brow. “I would sooner cut off my own leg than let that brute harm you.”

She was still trembling, but seemed soothed by his words, closing her eyes lightly. She looked so delicate, so lovely, that he could not help himself as he trailed soft kisses over every little bit of her face, tracing her features with his lips until he reached hers and the kisses became something sweeter.

Moments later, she drew back, her lashes fluttering open again. “Your pardon,” she said softly, earning a puzzled look from him.

He propped himself over her, letting his fingers trace the softness of her throat. “What nonsense are you speaking of now?” he inquired, searching her features for something the matter.

She flushed. “That he troubles me.”

Jamie shook his head in disbelief. Apologising for nightmares? “Dem it, woman,” he said, toying idly with the edge of her nightdress’s collar, watching the way colour bloomed across her features. “The wretch thrashed you and left you bloodied only half a dozen days past.” He drew the edge of the collar down just a little. “It is no small wonder you are still troubled.”

Her hand had slipped from his cheek to rest on his shoulder again, and like him, she was toying with the collar of his nightshirt. “It is foolishness,” she whispered.

“Aye,” he agreed, before leaning down and stifling any other such nonsense with a kiss, which she responded to with considerable ardour. Enough that she hardly noticed him drawing her nightgown off her shoulder. “I would rather,” he continued, trailing kisses from her lips down her jaw, “that you did not think of him in my bed.”

She was shivering anew, and her fingers were kneading at his shoulders as his lips found the shell of her ear. “Yes, your Grace,” she whispered mischievously against his ear. She giggled when he mock-growled, his stubbled cheek grazing against hers, and he loved her all over again for not being afraid of him.

“My name, wife,” he murmured, nibbling on her earlobe and darting at it with his tongue, making her breath catch.

Her fingers were sunk into his hair and he felt them curling. “James,” she breathed out, almost a prayer on her lips. 

He lifted his head to look at her, Isabelle, his wife, and knew he had to have her again. She, it seemed, was quite content to reciprocate, though he wondered if she ever realised that she seemed inclined to cling to him and leave curving reddish arcs from her nails across his back.

No matter, he thought, happily losing himself in her. He would heal and if she did notice, she would know that she had marked him and that he was indeed hers.

It was a good long while before either of them recalled the importance of breakfast.

Several trays were brought up, enough to fill the small table, but Jamie shooed the maid away as soon as possible, choosing to pour his wife’s tea himself. He approached her chair and offered her the cup.

“Thank you,” she said with that sweet, warm smile that made him feel ridiculously happy.

“Lud, woman,” he said with a snort. “Why do you thank me? I only brought it to you for fear you would be inclined to drop it if I made some noise or other.” He watched her, hawk-like. “Now, are you sure you have a good, solid grip? For I can hardly spare more china to your mercy.”

Her lips were twitching. “Yes, your Grace,” she said. “I have a firm hold.”

“Good,” he declared, throwing himself down in his own seat. “Lud, you’re fine as a strand of silk. It’s a wonder you don’t blow away with the least little breeze let alone hold a cup intact.”

“If I am silk, then you are wool,” she said. “A little thicker, but hardly enough to note.”

He sat back, feigning an expression of indignation. “You call me thin, woman?”

She bit into a thick slice of bread and jam. “I do,” she said, once she swallowed down the mouthful. Colour rose in her cheeks as she added, “I could count your ribs with my fingertips if I chose.”

One side of his mouth twitched, but it would not do to let her have the final say. “I am an active man, my Lady,” he said. “Men who are up at dawn and abed late do not tend to be solidly built.”

She was blushing delightfully when she agreed, “I noticed that of you, husband.”

The demmed woman was going to reduce him to grinning like an idiot, he mused. “That I am active?” he suggested mildly.

She was positively puce. “That you were late abed,” she stammered, ducking over her tea.

Jamie smothered a snicker. All the same, he picked at some more of the food in acquiescence to her observations, then rose as she sipped at her tea. He retreated behind the dressing screen, donning his clothing and taking a moment to gather himself.

He had a wife, and she was delightful and witty and could be made to blush like a milkmaid.

His head felt light knowing that she was only separated from him by the dressing screens, her nightwear and a sense of modest propriety, and he knew that if he did not seek air soon, he would have her back in the bed and breakfast be damned.

He left his cravat behind, emerging from the screen, adjusting his cuffs. “Your maid will be up to dress you by and by,” he said, trying to keep his gaze from her. “I shall come for you once she’s done and you will meet the staff.”

“Yes, your Grace,” she murmured.

It had to be in innocence, but he looked up at her and she was hiding a small smile behind her teacup. Even when he prowled closer, bracing his hands on the arms of her armchair, it did not fade.

“Your Grace again, hmm?”

She blinked up at him, then took a dainty sip. “So it would seem, your Grace,” she said, pressing her lips together to conceal a smile.

He laid his hand over her cup to keep from spilling and pushed it downwards, then lifted her chin with the fingertip of his other hand. “You are demmed fortunate you are charming,” he informed her, his voice low and husky. He dropped a gentle kiss on the end of her nose. “Now, finish your tea, woman, or else you will have to dress yourself.”

Her cheek dimpled and she said softly, “Yes, husband.”

Jamie stared at her, his finger curling beneath her chin, wondering if it would be considered wanton to haul her from the chair and carry her back to bed and make sure she never left. It took him a moment and every bit of his restraint to gather himself, nod, straighten up and walk out the door.

He pulled it closed firmly behind him and leaned back against the panelling, trying to steady his breathing.

“Good God, Jamie,” he muttered to himself. “You are in a world of trouble now, my lad.”

He started down the stair, calling for Henry to bring out Isabelle’s maid. The girl had been scrubbed and dressed more suitably and bobbed in a nervous curtsey as he approached. He studied her and nodded curtly. 

“You’ll do,” he said. “Your lady is waiting.” The girl bobbed in another curtsey. “Tell her she may choose anything from the trousseau. They may be slightly large, but they will suffice until we have her measured more suitably.”

“Yes, your Grace,” she said, before scurrying up the stairs.

Jamie watched her go in silence.

“Your Grace?”

He stirred, looking at Henry. “Hmm?”

“Is her Grace well?”

Jamie looked at him reproachfully. “You think I would leave her if she was not, man?” he said sharply. “She is breaking her fast presently, and I fear I was only distracting her.”

Henry inclined his head politely. “As you say, your Grace.” He hesitated, then said, “The first news sheets were delivered.”

Jamie closed his eyes. “Hellfire and damnation,” he muttered. “Bring them to my study. I will see what damage is done.”

On the whole, it could have been worse. Some half a dozen had gathered that the Duke of Rutherglen was now wed again, though only one had succeeded in finding the name of the bride, and that was one of the well-reputed sheets. He read through them all briskly, then folded them away, setting them in a drawer for later perusal.

He called on Henry, instructing the man to have the servants gathered and organised, then returned to his bedchamber to call on his wife. Common courtesy had him rap sharply on the door, and he waited until she bid him enter.

He barely crossed the threshold, and stopped short at the sight of her. She was in the golden and cream dress, the one he had know would suit her beautifully, and her hair was half-loose about her shoulders, in dark curls. He did not know how long he stood and gaped at her, like a stunned fish.

“It fits quite nicely,” he finally remembered to speak. “The colour is not as garish as I feared.”

She lowered her eyes and he saw that demmed teasing dimple in her cheek again. “Indeed, my Lord,” she murmured, folding her hand in such a way that her wedding band caught the light. “Thank you for your forethought and consideration.”

Jamie snorted, flustered. “Tush,” he said as dismissively as he could. “You are my wife. You must have only the most suitable clothing.”

She met his eyes and sank into a graceful curtsey. “All the same, my Lord,” she said, “Your wife is pleased.”

He had to smile, though he tried to quash it. His demmed reputation was going to be in tatters by the end of the day.

“I am satisfied, then,” he said, bowing low. He offered her his hand, her fingers soft and warm against his fingertips, and she allowed him to lead her down the staircase to the parlour, where he guided her to sit upon the couch. He remained standing behind it, glowering sternly, as the staff filed in and were presented.

Some were practically gaping at his wife, but were ushered away before they could say or do anything unseemly. He was relieved when it was done and they all filed back out of the room, leaving him alone with his wife.

“There is no need for this nonsense,” he said. “But I vow the demmed creatures are curious as cats.” He strode over to the window, glancing out into the street for any boys that might have been sent from the papers to keep an eye on the Duke’s residence for a glimpse of his new wife. “We leave for my estates on the morrow,” he added, “and they could not abide not seeing you before we depart.”

He heard her catch her breath. “Scotland?”

He could not help but roll his eyes. “No, Belgium,” he said. “Of course, Scotland. That is where my estates lie.”

She had gone quite pale. “I had no notion we would go so soon,” she said. “After all, the season…”

“Devil take the season,” Jamie snapped. He knew that from the moment word spread of the Duke’s new wife, invitations would start flooding in, and the poor woman had quite enough to think on without having to deal with society picking at her. “You have no need of being poked and prodded by the echelons of society, and I have no desire to set tongues wagging.”

She was twisting her ring about her finger once more, her eyes on him. “Tongues will wag no matter if you are here or there,” she said quietly, “but thank you again, husband, for your consideration.”

He waved a hand self-consciously, shrugging a shoulder. “Town does not become me,” he said abruptly. “I become quite unpleasant.”

Her eyes were wide and guileless as she said dryly, “I had no notion.” His lips twitched, and once more when she inclined her head and inquired, “Will I find a gentleman in the country?”

He wanted to laugh aloud at her nerve. “You might look,” he admitted, for the country suited him far better, though he could no more change his nature than the tiger could change its stripes. “Though I would caution against hope.”

She rose then, and he watched her approach him. The dress became her beautifully, and she moved as if it were a second skin. 

“What is Scotland like?” she asked, looking up at him.

He kept his arms folded, fighting the impulse to gather her to him, and leaned back against the wall. “You might as well ask what England is like, my Lady,” he said, “Not one foot of the country is like another. There are mountains in part, valleys in others. Lakes and castles. Farms and villages.”

“High lands and low lands?” she offered.

He smiled. “You might say so,” he agreed.

She put her head to one side. “Where do your estates lie? In the high lands?”

It startled him to realise that as bright and as witty as she was, she was above all else English. Few south of the border cared to know the nature of Scotland, unless they planned to do business there.

He took her hand without thought, and led her through the house to his study, offering her a short lesson in British geography. She looked quite startled at the size of the country, and more so the distance they would have to travel, and though she protested it would be quite the adventure, he could see her trepidation written upon her features. 

He lifted her chin gently with a curled finger. “Something is troubling you,” he said, searching her features. “Would you stay in town? Is the journey too great too soon?”

She shook her head, and he could see she wanted to turn away, but could not. “I only wonder at your choice, my Lord,” she said in a quiet voice, meeting his eyes. “I fear you have taken to wife a woman who is the laughing stock of London society.”

He leaned closer, holding her gaze with his own. “To the devil with London society,” he said, his voice calm but firm in its resolve. “If I wished for a wife who bleated and tittered and thought only of fashion and dancing, then I would have allowed Bellamy to seek me some little strumpet with hardly a couple of thoughts to rub together.” He scowled at the thought. “I have no need of London society, as much as it seems to believe I must.”

He jolted in surprise when one of her small hands slipped into his. “Instead,” she said, puzzled wonder in her face, “you wished for a wife who was none of these things?”

He wished he had the courage to fall to his knees and profess that he adored her, that she was his little cat, his would-be tigress. He desired her, it was true, but with every breath of air he shared with her, he knew he could not be without her, not again, not any longer.

He lifted her hand to his lips, wishing he had the words to explain it all, but he had none, and all he could do was kiss her hand and wish that she could understand him. 

A crash from below made him drop her hand, startled.

“Mama! Father! I am home!”

Jamie whirled around, storming towards the door ion time to see Bellamy tripping his way up the staircase, beaming like the drunken fool he was. The boy seldom drank to excess, but when he did…

“Damn you, boy!” he exclaimed in frustration. “You were to remain in Lady Eaglesham’s care!”

His son blinked blearily at him and poked him in the chest. “Tush,” he said, beaming, “I have come to see that you didn’t break my new mama!” Jamie felt the flush rise up his own features, and did not dare to look at Isabelle to see how she fared. “I quite like her in one piece, you see.”

Isabelle giggled. “I am quite well, Master Bay,” she said from behind Jamie.

Bellamy threw up his hands joyfully. “La! It seems my concern was all in vain!” he declared. “I needn’t have climbed out of the window and stolen a horse after all.”

Jamie folded his arms to keep from grasping his son and giving him a good, hard shake. Bellamy was unsteady on horseback at the best of times, but while drunk? He could have broken his demmed neck! 

“You stole a horse?” he said tersely. “From Lord Eaglesham? While drunk?”

“Mm.” Bellamy put out an arm to prop himself against the wall. “I called him Reginald Billingsworth Poole.” He beamed like the drunken sot that he was. “We had a lovely ride, Reginald and I.” He turned a solemn look on his father. “But I do believe that while were mountain the steps, he took a sh…”

“Bellamy!” Jamie snapped.

Bellamy’s lower lip trembled and he blinked as if he could not comprehend why he was being shouted at. “Father, you do not need to grouse so,” he grumbled. “I had thought you might be in a better mood.”

Jamie leaned closer to him and growled, “And I thought you have a more civil tongue before a lady.”

He looked down, startled, when Isabelle laid her hand on his arm. “I do not mind, truly,” she said with a small, benevolent smile. “He only means it in good spirits, I have no doubt.”

“Hmm.” Jamie glared at his son, then called on Henry. The butler appeared in the doorway behind Bellamy’s shoulder. Jamie smiled thinly. “Take my wineskin of a son, toss him in the horse trough, and once he is sober, have him clean the steps to teach him the importance of sobriety.”

Isabelle was shaking with giggles as Bellamy burst out in outrage. 

“Father! How dare you!”

Jamie smiled at him cheerfully. “You let a stolen horse shit on my step,” he said. “I think I am quite justified.”

“But I am wearing silk!” Bellamy wailed pitifully.

Jamie glanced sidelong at Isabelle, then held up a hand. “Hold,” he said. He looked at his wife, wondering how much mischief lay behind those blue eyes. “Should I be merciful to my son, wife? Should I let his deeds go unpunished?”

Bellamy clung to the doorframe, struggling against Henry’s grip, his eyes wide and pleading.

Isabelle gazed at him, then looked at Jamie and he raised his eyebrow in silent challenge.

“His silks should at least be spared,” she suggested, and Jamie knew he had the right woman as his wife.

“You heard the Duchess, Henry,” he said, without looking away from her. “Strip him, then toss him in the horse trough.”

Bellamy wailed as he was dragged away.

Isabelle was trying her utmost not to smile. “A suitable punishment for drunkeness, my Lord?” she said.

“A suitable test for a Duchess,” he replied, capturing her hand and lifting it to his lips, kissing each fingertip. He watched her colour rise as delicate as a sunrise. “I pray you are always as you are now?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “And how is that, my Lord?” she asked in a whisper. 

His lips brushed her knuckles reverently. “Perfection.”


	10. Chapter 10

Jamie could barely recall what it was like to have a wife.

Being a less than merry widower for some twenty years, having someone pay attention to his words and look at him with interest was a novel experience. Isabelle did that quite intently, asking all manner of questions about his homeland, his shipyards, his work.

He was pleased to draw out some of the plans for one of the latest vessels that his yards were working on, explaining each part to her, describing the teams that would work on them. The newest ship was a schooner, and was already well under way, which was part of his irritation in being in London: he preferred to be present when much of the work was being done.

Isabelle sat at his workdesk, and he leaned over her, his hand resting on the back of the chair, so close to her that her hair brushed his knuckles.

"How big will it be when it is finished?" she asked, studying the lines of the drawing.

He smiled, tapping the corner of the page with his other hand. "This is the key," he said. "You can see how an inch is measured against it and understand how many yards and feet it will become." 

He watched her frown in thought, no doubt calculating with her clever little brain, and she nodded gravely. "So it is only a little one?"

"By comparison to some," he agreed. "Larger than a sloop, but smaller than a ship of the fleet." He stepped around her to roll up the schematics and the maps that lay beneath them. "There are a wide variety of shapes and sizes."

She looked up at him. "Will we take one of your ships?" she asked.

He glanced at her, then shook his head. "Not on this occasion," he said, though he knew there were at least half a dozen captains he could call on, who were inclined to dock in London. "It would be far too conspicuous, and I would that you were undisturbed for the journey."

What went unsaid was that he did not desire to share her with anyone, at least for a few days. The fussing and questions could come later, but for now, he wanted to see her settle into her new role as wife and Duchess. 

He took her about the house, showing her from the top to the bottom, and she was quite dazed when he insisted it was but a small townhouse for someone of his rank. Scots Dukes were not given the grand mansions that were acquitted to the nobility of England. 

She was quiet, thoughtful, when they took tea in the parlour at the back of the house, overlooking the garden.

"Is your house in Scotland large?" she finally asked.

Jamie sprawled back on the couch, watching her delicately slicing up a small piece of cake with a fork. "I would say a little larger than the Eaglesham estate," he replied. "Not vastly, but the scale of the house in not the matter. It is the land that is important. We have some dozen or more farms under our auspices, and that is to say nothing of the town houses and properties we hold in Edinburgh and Glasgow."

She looked at him and shook her head in bewilderment. 

"Something is the matter?" he inquired, sitting up.

"I never imagined I would be married into a family so grand," she admitted bashfully. "The Cranbrook estate is only small."

"Mm." He gazed at her, wondering if she would speak out of their family misfortunes. He had investigated at length, but some matters were only known by the Viscount and - Jamie suspected - his daughter. She had worked on the books and accounts, he recalled. "It has decent farmland?"

She nodded, though she did not meet his eyes. "It is greatly reduced, I fear," she said quietly, setting down her teacup. "There were some... difficulties in recent years." She glanced up at him, and for a moment, she almost seemed fearful. "But it is naught to be concerned with."

He could almost taste the lie in the air.

She had almost wed Aston to save her father's paltry estate. If it had been naught to be concerned with, then she would not have thrown herself upon the blade of humiliation and offence to save it. All the same, he would not press her, not for details, nor shame her family.

There was quietness for a time, as she picked at the cake and he supped his tea, watching her.

Finally, she set aside her dishes. "Your Grace," she said, hesitant once more.

He raised an eyebrow. "Again?" he inquired.

She blushed and smiled shyly. "James, then," she corrected herself. "May I write a letter?"

"Lud, woman, you are no slave," he said with a snort. "You may do as you demmed well please."

She was quiet for a moment, then said, "I would write a letter, then, but I have no paper nor ink."

"The woman would beggar me!" he said, throwing up his hands, but he could not help the twitch of his lips and saw her own curl in response. "Paper? Ink! I'faith, I cannot imagine how I will tolerate such extravagance!" He waved a hand lazily towards the door. "If you go to my study, in the top drawer on the right, you will find stationary."

When she rose, he followed suit, offering a leg, and she offered him another of those quick, shy smiles before hurrying out of the door. 

As soon as she was gone from his sight, he sank down onto the couch again, lost in thought. 

How dire must the Cranbrook fortunes be, he wondered. A letter would be issued to Sir Thomas for the attention of his accountants and lawyers, for if the thought of her father's misfortunes distressed her so, then matters would have to be turned about. He remembered what she had said of 'difficulties'. If he recalled correctly, it was the loss of her mother that had driven her father to the brink of poverty, lost in grief.

Love was no reason for a man to lose all that he had. 

He rose from the couch and approached the window, thinking hard.

It could not be seen as charity, for Maurice was no doubt as proud as his daughter. Pride was all well and good, but sometimes, one had to bend a little. 

He turned his head when there was a ring of the doorbell. It was true the news sheets were about, but no one had written to advise that they would be calling.

A moment later, Henry entered the room. "Your Grace?" he said.

Jamie turned. The man was pale and looked furious. "What the deuce is the matter, man?"

"There is an unpleasant fellow at the door, your Grace," Henry replied. "He said he is her Grace's betrothed."

Jamie's lips twitched. "Young Aston, is it? Alderley's boy?"

"Yes, your Grace."

Jamie brought his hand up to tap his chin thoughtfully with his fingertips. At least Aston was wise enough not to barge into the house of a Duke, which spoke of some little instinct for survival, however small. Jamie liked to believe he was not a terrible person, but that did not mean he was not wicked from time to time. "Tell him that the lady and I are... quite engaged at present. In no state to be interrupted. After all, it is the first day of our marriage and we are both quite worn out. And may still be wearing out further."

His man's lips compressed as he tried to repress an approving smirk. "Yes, your Grace," he said. "Shall I be sure to tell him that the lady herself will need time to rest and recuperate?"

Jamie glanced at the ceiling, as if he might see the lady in question looking at him reproachfully for using the sanctity of their marriage bed as a switch to strike at Aston. "Tactfully," he amended, folding his hands behind his back. "Do not be crude about it."

Henry nodded and withdrew.

Jamie returned to the window, gazing outside into the bleak, grey day.

Aston was another matter that would have to be tended to. Once Bellamy had finally selected a wedding costume for him, two days earlier, they had spent the evening discuss what options they might have to bring Aston down. A man such as he had earned every bit of their reproach, and though Alderley was inclined to be a decent fellow, his son had not yet learned the importance of treating his betters properly. 

Such lessons were of vital import.

It was very convenient to have a son who toyed with law when he attended university. Despite popular misconception, Bellamy hid a shrewd mind behind the ruffles and cravats, and had laid out a dozen ways in which they might reduce Aston without damaging his father into the bargain. 

He had already put in motion the plan of choice. Aston's future fortune depended on his ability to maintain his father's success. By discreetly undercutting Aston's interests with their own business, they would force him to move in ever more risky ventures. For the man was known for recklessness, it was less a case of pulling the lever and more a case of allowing him to step up onto the gallows, put the noose on himself, and jump through the trap out of his blind wilfulness. 

It was verging on illegal, but Bellamy assured him that as long as the cards were placed carefully, no one would need ever know that their intervention was anything but business. Their accountants and bankers had no notion of what they were involved in, and Jamie and his son intended to keep it that way. 

If they turned a small profit in the interim, Bellamy had said, all the better. 

He had no notion of how long he spent musing on the manner of his vengeance, and only stirred when Henry approached to advise him that dinner would be ready shortly.

"Shall I ring, your Grace?" he asked. "Master Bay might begrudge it."

"Ha!" Jamie snorted. "I shall wake the brat myself, and fetch my wife." He strode into the hall and up the stairs. 

Bellamy had crawled away to his bed to recover from the kiss of Dionysus, and no doubt was well abed.

Jamie was nothing if not a gentle father. 

He grabbed the pitcher from the boy's dresser, lifted the blankets covering his son, and cast the contents of the pitcher into the bed. The blankets muffled the howl of indignation, and Bellamy stumbled from the bed, his nightshirt sodden and clinging to him. He groaned, clutching his head. "Papa..."

"Dinner will be ready momentarily," Jamie said, setting the pitcher on the bedside cabinet. "I would dress, were I you."

"You are an absolute beast," Bellamy grumbled, leaning heavily against the post of the bed.

"Alas, it is true," Jamie said cheerfully. "Now dress, my lad, or else I'll have Henry haul you to the horse-trough again."

Bellamy put out his tongue as Jamie turned on his heel and went to find his wife.

The desk in his study faced the window - only in summer of course - and Isabelle was seated there. She had no pen in her hand, he noticed, but was turning her wedding band again and again, lost in thought. Her letter lay before her, done and blotted.

He approached on light feet and could not resist the impulse to put out his hand and trace his fingers across the lovely pale nape of her neck. She shivered everso slightly. "You are done?" he asked when she looked up at him.

Her eyes returned to the letter. "Would you add anything, my Lord?" she asked, putting her fingertips to the edge of the page and pushing it to him.

That she would allow him to read the letter was surprise enough. "It will suffice," he said, as he read, but as he braced one hand on the desk and leaned closer to read her sweeping, elegant hand, he was caught by her signature. He tilted his head to look at her. "Belle?"

Her lips parted just a little in a small, breathless sound. "Yes, my Lord."

Jamie curled his fingers against the very base of her neck, wondering at such a response. "Would you prefer to be call so?" he murmured.

Her eyes fluttered shut and she was flushed and lovely and trembling. "If you believe it becomes me," she whispered, her voice trembling. 

"Aye." Jamie's own breath caught. She was not afraid. No, indeed, she was quite as far from afraid as it was possible to be. "It does at that." He uncurled his hand, letting his palm rest against her throat. Her heart was racing, and the pace quickened even more when he brushed his thumb up the front of her throat to gently tilt her chin back. She was trembling like a leaf and so very lovely. "Will you not look at me, wife?" His voice sounded uncommon deep, even in his own ears. 

Her eyelids fluttered open, as a sleeper waking from a deep dream she startled. He must have leaned closer to her. He had not realised until he felt her gasp on his lips. "My Lord?" she whispered, her voice faint.

He searched her features, wondering if it would be considered unseemly to kiss her here, and hold her fast. "Do you wish for me to call you Belle?" he asked as softly as he could. It was staggering that she trembled as she did at his touch, that she leaned into him, that she... desired? Was that possible? "Would it please you?"

Her tongue darted, quick and pink, along her lower lip. "Yes, my Lord," she breathed.

Lud, she would be the death of him.

He leaned closer to kiss her softly, chastely. "Very well, ma belle dame," he murmured. "Je vais vous appeler Belle."

She drew back barely half an inch, eyes widening. "You speak French?"

He chuckled in amusement. "You observe well, my Lady," he said, watching her expression as his thumb continued to gently tease beneath her jaw. She had not pushed him away yet, and that astonished him. "I studied there for some time in my youth." His lips curved, wondering if her blood was as hot as her French cousins. "I have always had a passion for the country, you might say."

She looked so truly astonished that he was hardpressed not to kiss her again. "Oh," was all she said. 

They exchanged playful words, though he wished he could have silenced himself before comparing their marriage to the Auld Alliance. He supposed that sometimes, when one was soft on a woman, one might make a fool of himself from time to time. Thankfully, she hardly seemed to notice. 

Together, they descended to the dining room, where Bellamy was already waiting, though he looked half-done in.

To Jamie's pleasure, Belle acquitted herself quite beautifully over dinner, though her shyness returned from time to time, particularly when matters turned to Jamie's own dislike of dancing. She did not need to know that the only person who he had ever danced with was Bay's mother, and she needed to know even less that had become of her.

He sat in silence for much of the rest of dinner, gazing into nothing.

Eliza would have adored her, of course. She always did admire a good-hearted witty woman, which was why she and Regina had been so very close. Regina. He knew it was cowardice itself not to write ahead to Westfell, to advise them of the new development, but she was the reason.

He ought to have told Belle at the very least, but it was... complicated. A messy, complicated, tawdry affair that had no place in a maiden's marriage bed. If all was well, Regina would have retired to the Dower House after their last terrible row. She had struck him. There had been tears and fury and the words they had turned on one another had been poisonous.

So many years of simmering grief and anger and distrust.

Eliza had loved her so, but Eliza believed the best in all people. She had not seen all that he had. 

He startled when a hand touched his. He looked at them, then at Belle.

"I am weary, husband," she said, searching his features. "Might we to bed?"

He straightened in his chair at once. "Of course, dearie," he murmured. "We will begin early in the morrow. Early to bed is wise." He glanced at Bay. "I trust you will not bring the house crumbling about our ears in my absence, my boy?"

Bellamy huffed and puffed, and Jamie squeezed his shoulder fondly, then rose, offering his hand to his wife. She did not tremble as she had the previous night, as he led her up the stairs, and he released her to her maid's care. They vanished behind the dressing screen as he sank into his seat before the fire.

He did not wish nor intend to be melancholy, but how could he not?

What had once been a cautious friendship had been shattered when Regina believed she should marry him: the former Duchess seeking to be a Duchess once more, in Eliza's stead. Belle was nothing like her, quiet and steadfast but with an inner fire that captivated him. She was naught like Eliza or Regina, for they had been schooled in holding their tongue and proper behaviour. Belle's tongue was swift and clever and, best of all, unbroken by manners.

He heard the creak of the door as the maid bustled out, then the clink of the decanter against a glass.

He glanced towards his wife, where she stood by the window, fetching him a drink. Her nightdress flowed in a cascade of silk to her bare feet. She turned and padded across the floor, and he saw her shiver as she stepped from carpet to polished floor.

Jamie frowned, sitting up a little and holding out his hand to her. "Are you chilled?" he asked, concerned. 

She slipped her hand into his. "Only my feet," she said, blushing as he drew her closer. 

He looked up at her, standing over him, so lovely by the firelight. It felt like a crime to make her sit even three paces away, so he leaned down and drew the footstool from beneath his chair and set it between his feet.

"Rest yourself there, m'dear," he murmured. "You may warm yourself better before the fire."

"Thank you," she whispered, holding out the glass to him. His fingertips skimmed hers and she asked tentatively, "Is it too little or too much?"

She had overestimated the measure, but on a night like this, when his mood was low, it would not be unwelcome. "Quite enough," he replied quietly, motioning to the footstool.

He could see she blushed as she gathered her nightdress in her hand and settled on the stool. When she leaned back against his thighs as he supped the Scotch, he closed his eyes against the rush of warmth. Whether it was the drink or her presence, he wasn't certain. 

Belle arranged herself, resting her arm atop his thigh, and her cheek upon her arm, small and soft and warm and so very close to him. The firelight became her, casting a soft glow upon the curve of her neck and shoulder and the column of her throat, where the collar of her nightdress did not quite conceal. He watched her for a time, admiring how very lovely she was.

Her hair, however, was not loose.

He drained the remains of the glass, and propped it on the left arm of the chair, as his right delved into the dark mass of her hair, seeking out the pins holding it in place. 

"Demmed maid forgot to undo your hair," he excused himself.

Belle tilted her head slightly, just enough to allow him to tend it all. "So she did," she murmured. 

One by one, the pins came free in his fingers made just a little clumsy by drink. Her hair tumbled down in soft waves and curls, over his hand, over his lap. He released the glass, leaving it resting on the arm, combing his fingers through the loosened strands even as he freed the last pins. She shivered, he noticed, as his fingers grazed her nape once more. 

“There,” he said, as the dark waves spread across her shoulders. “Much better.”

She was still for a moment, then turned to look up at him. He gently brushed the hair back over her shoulder and let his fingers trail against her jaw and throat. She had a small, worried frown on her face.

“Something is troubling you, dearie?”

Her eyes darted down and he belatedly noticed she had laid her hand warm against his thigh to support herself. She looked back up at him, flushing. “A little,” she said. “You spoke little at dinner. Did we say something that distressed you?”

He could barely conceal his surprise. “Distress me?” He shook his head and smoothed her nightgown against her shoulder. “Not at all my dear.”

She stared at him searchingly, and he wondered if she could see the lie. She rose on her knees on the footstool and his breath caught when she laid her hand to his cheek.

“You need not tell me,” she said with such kindness in her tone that he trembled. “But if you should wish to do so, I will listen.” He tried to smile, but it faltered, then even moreso when her hand moved from his thigh to hip to waist. “I am in earnest,” she whispered, so close to him, “my husband.”

He had to kiss her, hungrily, and he felt the gasp against his lips. His fingers were trembling, shaping the curve of her head, the cusp of her ear. 

“You could draw secrets from the saints, ma Belle,” he whispered close to her lips, “but this is not a night for secrets.” He kissed her again, lightly, barely a whisper of their lips. “”I fear we must rest. The journey will be wearying.”

She drew back, flushed and pink. “Will you join me?” she asked softly.

He gazed at her. “Join you?”

The fleeting fear that crossed her face near broke his heart. “Please…”

“Lest nightmares trouble you,” he understood. 

She nodded, lowering her eyes. “I do not want to be alone.”

He wondered if she had thought that he might feel the same, a brief smile flitting across his lips. “Then you shall not be,” he said, drawing her gently to her feet. “Get you to bed. I shall join you shortly.”

To his surprise, she caught one of his hands, and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

He gazed at their linked fingers, her small hand, so trusting, and covered it with his other hand, patting it gently. “It’s no matter.”

He watched her scurry to the bed and crawl beneath the covers, and released a long, silent breath. He had fallen in too deep and yet, there still seemed further to fall.


	11. Chapter 11

Jamie was a seasoned traveller, both by road and by ship.

Alas, it seemed that poor Belle was not so.

As excited as she had been to venture into the north, within two hours of leaving the port, the poor woman was as green as a spring leaf. What little breakfast she had managed returned on her, and Jamie ushered to the bunk in the small cabin they were to share.

It was terribly wearisome to be closed within, when there was the sea air to be taken, and the breeze, but if his wife was suffering, he had no intention of leaving her to suffer alone, simply because being cooped up bored him. She had sent him, once, to check on her little maid, and he was unsurprised to find the girl bent over the rail, in quite as poor a state as her mistress.

“She will be well enough,” he murmured to Belle, sitting on a low stool by the bunk and sponging her face with a cool, damp cloth. “McEwan may seem a large brute, but he will take good care of her.”

His wife’s eyes opened a little. “You must think me wretched,” she whispered apologetically, between bouts of violent sickness. He wondered quite what she had left to bring up.

“Lud no,” he said, setting the pail down. “I have seen grown men crying like children when the sickness came upon them.” It was a lie, but a comforting one, as he dabbed at her brow and she closed her eyes. “Would you prefer to take the carriage?” he asked with concern. “We can be put ashore if it would make the journey easier for you.”

She squinted at him. “It would take a good deal longer, would it not?” she asked faintly.

“Alas, tis so," he said with a grimace. "The blasted country is too demmed big. To travel by ship cuts a good number of days from the journey."

There was a stubborn set to her jaw he was coming to recognise. “Then aboard we shall stay,” she murmured. “I would not have you cooped up in a carriage for days on end.” Her eyes glinted, albeit faintly. “You would become quite intolerable.”

He contained a small smile. Claws, even now. “Your tolerance, m’dear,” he murmured, “must have a wondrous high threshold.”

She was still and quiet, and murmured so softly, “Perhaps I enjoy being waited upon by you.”

Jamie looked at her in astonishment, and leaned closer to press a kiss to her brow. “You, wife,” he whispered, “are a remarkable creature.”

“And you,” she replied, tilting her head back as he sponged her throat, “for sitting with a wife who had been sick upon your shoes.”

Jamie snorted in brief amusement. “You are not the first woman to do so,” he murmured, remembering another time, another place, another wife. She was so quiet he thought she might be asleep and murmured distantly, “Bellamy’s mother was sick as a dog when she was first with child.”

She turned her face to his, her eyes closed lightly. Not asleep them. “Your poor shoes,” she murmured. “They suffer greatly for your care.”

For a moment, without her eyes upon him, he tried to push down the memory of Eliza, of the mother of his child. She would have laughed at him too, teased him about his shoes, and when Belle’s eyes opened, he wondered if she cared that he had been wed before, that he had spoken of the woman who had preceded her.

Before either of them could speak, Belle folded upon herself again, and he caught the pail up just in time for her.

The rest of the journey continued in much of the same vein. What little she could keep down would all too soon return on her some hour or so later. It was a fortunately short voyage, less than twenty-four hours, and he slept none of them, sitting by her side and watching over her lest matters become worse.

It was foolish to be so fond of her already, he knew, but he had plenty of experience of folly and very little of it had made him so unexpectedly happy as Belle’s presence.

When they finally emerged into daylight once more, as the ship approached the docks of Leith, and some little colour returned to her cheeks, she thanked him, as if he had acted in a way that a husband was not expected to. 

Jamie cough self-consciously and patted her hand. “It would be demmed awkward to let one’s wife expire from sea-sickness,” he said. “The rumours surrounding me are bad enough, but to lose a wife within three days of wedlock?” He shook his head, tutting sternly. “I fear I would be hunted down and burnt at the stake by polite society.”

She leaned into him, though she did not seem aware that she had done so. “You are not so terrible as you would have them believe,” she said, “and as you said, a fig for polite society.”

He could hardly keep the smile from his face, and leaned a little closer to kiss her pale brow, uncaring of who might see. “I fear I may be corrupting you, dearie,” he said. “Such shocking notions from such an innocent mouth.”

Belle giggled. “Bay would be horrified.”

Jamie snorted. “The demmed boy thinks far too much of his polite society,” he said. “A pity you can’t thrash common sense into a child.” With one fingertip, he tilted up her chin, searching her features. “You will not miss being displayed at the season?”

Her dainty nose wrinkled delightfully. “It did not suit me, I fear,” she said. “I only went with the intention of seeking a match.”

Jamie’s lips twitched rebelliously. “And instead,” he observed, “my demmed son made you quite cross.”

Inexplicably, she flushed, as if ashamed. “He did,” she said quietly, “but I fear my anger was quite unfounded.” Her eyes rose and met his. “He warned me against Aston. I ought to have listened.”

Jamie gazed at her, wondering if it was wise to hide Aston’s visit to the house from her. Her nightmares still persisted, so to conceal it - for now at least - seemed wise. He brushed his thumb against her chin. “Once in a while, my son proves he is quite intelligent,” he said. “And had he not angered you so, then you might never have come to tea and my favourite tea set might be intact.”

The look of outright indignation almost made him laugh aloud. “I maintain, my Lord,” she said in her ferociously sweet tones, “that your huffing about is the reason your cup was broken.”

He laughed them, freely. “And yet, you have not yet broken more, and I huff about most each and every moment,” he reminded her. He shook his head gravely. “No, my dear. You broke the cup. It was none of my doing.”

The pout on her lips demanded to be kissed away, but that would be unseemly given that she was exhausted and most likely half-starved. One should never ravish a lady who had neither slept nor eaten. It is never quite as pleasant as one imagines.

Instead, he directed her attention to the port, and he watched her looking about in fascinated delight as they came in to dock. She clawed at him when he teased her with history, and when they finally reached their carriage, he was unsurprised when her head came to rest on his shoulder within moments. 

He glared fiercely across at McEwan and the maid, warning them silently that the fact that the Duchess snored with small delicate sounds like a sleeping kitten was not to be mentioned outwith the carriage.

At the townhouse, he let them disembark first, before gently rousing his wife, and aiding her down from the carriage. Her steps were unsteady, but she held herself well at the sight of the two rows of house staff, who were somewhat more subtle in their stares than the London staff.

She seemed quite taken with the house, but before he could show her about to her room, he heard his son’s voice call out. His demmed son, who was meant to remain in London. 

“How in damnation are you here?” he heard himself bark as Bellamy loped down the stairs.

He was laughing impudently. “You paid too little attention to the rest of the passengers on your boat, father,” he said, embracing Belle warmly. “Welcome to our homeland, mama.”

Jamie was shaking with fury and caught his son by his cravat. “Bellamy,” he snarled, “Damn you, what the devil are you about?”

Bellamy caught his shoulders with both hands, holding him hard, and his gaze was so intent that Jamie’s anger quailed. “Come now, father,” he said. “Surely you do not wish to introduce Belle to Grandmama without my presence to soften the blow.”

Jamie was glad of his son’s grip on his shoulders. He had believed his fear of that very matter had been hidden well enough, but it seemed not. Bellamy knew him better than any, of course, and knew his grandmother also. Bellamy lowered his chin in a minute nod.

“James?” Belle shook them back to the present. 

The woman was so pale, she looked like she might swoon. With a curt word to his son, he scooped her up in his arms. She was light as a bird, and he remembered the first time he had carried her so. This time, at least, she did not protest as he carried into the master bedroom and set her gently on the bed.

Assured she was well, he knew he ought to speak to Bellamy.

“Will you not rest with me?” His wife asked quietly, touching his cheek softly. “You must have slept even less than I.”

He allowed himself the luxury of kissing her palm. “You will rest better without me puffing beside you, I wager,” he murmured. “Your maid will take you to the bath and there will be food momentarily.”

Her blue eyes searched his face. “And you will brook no refusal?”

He released a worn sigh. “I have an unrepentant son to chastise,” he said.

Her fingertips grazed his cheek. “Is your mother so terrible?”

How he had deceived her, letting her remain ignorant of all that laid ahead. But how could he explain who Regina was to him and why he let her remain for so long, in spite of everything?

“We should not talk of such matters when you are so tired,” he said, rising. It was cowardice, he knew. Plain and simple. “Eat, bathe, rest. Once you are refreshed, we may talk at length.”

He left her to her maid’s tender cares and descended, hesitating only briefly before walking into the drawing room, where his son waited. Bellamy was taking a pipe by the window, rich coils of smoke puffing from his lips.

“You look like hell,” he said without turning. “Don’t tell me you have taken to seasickness?”

“Not I,” Jamie said, approaching the dresser and opening the decanter to fill a glass with scotch. “Belle did not take well to the sea.”

“Damn.” Bellamy went to the mantle and knocked the ash and tobacco from his pipe into the grate. “And no doubt, you nursed her through it, hmm? I can think of no other reason why you would manhandle me so.”

“Aside from the fact you are a disobedient wretch?” Jamie sank into one of the chairs, rubbing his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Lud, I should have had you beaten more as a child. Maybe then, you would do as you were asked.”

“Ha!” Bellamy settled opposite him. “You fool yourself if you believe that would have been enough.” He folded his hands over his middle. “I was right to come, was I not?”

Jamie looked at his glass. “Aye,” he murmured. He looked up at his son. “I should write ahead, but I cannot find the words to tell her.”

“I could…”

“No,” Jamie said at once. “No.” He laid his head back against the back of the chair. “By God, I should not be accountable to the woman. She is not my keeper nor my blood. Why should she be told at once? She should not even still live within the main house at Westfell.”

“Papa,” Bellamy said reproachfully. “She is still my Grandmama.”

Jamie drained his glass, unable to look at his son. The trusting, loving boy had no notion what his Grandmama might have done. Might have. There was the crux of the matter. She loved Bay so very much, and she had loved Eliza, and yet, Eliza was dead, and Regina still played at Duchess, even though it had not been her place for over twenty years. She walked and talked and smiled as if she were the lady of the house.

He had not dared to imagine how she might respond to a woman elevated to be Duchess, a woman who would take her position.

“She should retire to the Dower house,” he said finally.

“And live in mama’s mausoleum?” Bellamy said. “You could not do that anymore than she could.”

Jamie rose and went to refill his glass. It was easier than looking at his son. “She wears Eliza’s shoes, though they were never hers to fill,” he said. He swallowed down a second glass and poured a third. “That is Isabelle’s place now.”

“You should tell her.”

“Which?” Jamie asked dully.

“One or both for preference,” Bellamy replied. “Papa, it is hardly fair to set them before one another without so much as a warning.”

“God in heaven, do you think me a fool, boy?” Jamie spun about and pointed a stern finger at his son. “I will tell Isabelle soon enough. As for Regina, she will find out when I am ready for her to.”

“So not until Isabelle steps down from the carriage? Lud, papa. What has she done to make you hate her so?”

Jamie subsided onto the elegant couch. “Hate? I do not hate her.”

“Then you do a demmed spectacular impersonation of it,” Bellamy murmured. He dragged his chair closer to his father. “Papa, you will not tell me what came to pass while I was at school, and Grandmama says it is nothing to concern me, and yet, all I see is how you gnash at one another to no end. It has been going on so long. Can it not be put behind you?”

Jamie stared at him. He was so very much like his mother, the same eyes, the same hair, the hopeful trust. It would break his heart if he knew what his Grandmama had been accused of, what she had never denied. Eliza was not dying, not until she was left alone in Regina’s care, and as much as he wished to believe it could be a fit…

“It is a private matter,” he said quietly.

Bellamy sighed. “Fine,” he said, pushing his chair back. “You are maudlin and now, you have addled yourself with drink.” He rose and bent over his father, guiding him to lie back on the couch. “Have some rest, you stubborn old bastard, and we can talk further when you are not utterly done in.”

“I am not weary,” Jamie grumbled as the glass was pried from his hand. 

“And I am the Pope,” Bellamy retorted. There was a blanket draped along the back of the couch and Jamie wondered if Bellamy had expected him to be spent. It seemed so, for Bellamy tucked him up like a child. “Rest, old man, then I shall tell you of the latest news from London that you were too busy to read this morning.”

“London?” Jamie lifted his head.

Bellamy clapped a hand against his father’s cheek and forced his head back down. “After you have slept,” he said. “Now, do you wish for me to strike you on the brow? For if I am to follow Mama Isabelle’s lesson, there is a poker to hand.”

Jamie snorted wearily and closed his eyes. “Impudent boy,” he muttered.

“Aye, indeed,” Bellamy murmured.

Jamie felt his son’s lips press briefly to his forehead. The boy might be an imbecile on occasion, but he was still the best son a man could wish for.


	12. Chapter 12

Jamie was fond of Edinburgh. 

It was as busy and bustling as London, but without the hauteur and aloofness that eked along every sophisticated street of the English capital. Above all else, the nobles in Edinburgh were Scots, who accorded him some measure of respect, compared to the aristocracy in London.

It was not that he especially wished to be admired by society, but it was a never-ending source of frustration to be treated as a lesser to an English-born Duke of a far younger line simply because he came from north of the border. Bay knew how to flirt with society, court them on their own terms, but Jamie was not made for social sport, not among a society that looked down on him. 

He was seated in his office at the front of the lower level of the house. It overlooked a charming square, where new trees were taking root. They would be magnificent one day, but presently, they were barely more than saplings, a little green added to the grandeur of the so-called New Town. 

Piles of paperwork and mail had mounted up around him in the two days they had been in Edinburgh. Messages had arrived from London by courier, to keep appraised of the situation with Aston, and thus far, there was nothing to concern him. As much as he would have liked to have Bellamy handling matters, his son was far more useful where he presently was.

Of course, a good deal of that use was being put to taking Isabelle shopping.

Jamie was quite content to admit that he loathed attending fashionable shops and choosing suitable attire. Bellamy, on the other hand, thrived on it. He had an eye for colour, textures, even cuts that were daring and modern without seeming gauche. Isabelle was to be given a Duchess's wardrobe, and while it would cost a pretty penny, Jamie knew it would be worth it. 

Bellamy huffed in amusement that such a little woman was being so very spoiled, but Jamie cared naught for it. Belle had earned some little spoiling. Any woman who was willing to take him on, and Bellamy as well, in spite of his reputation deserved to be showered in gold and diamonds.

Jamie set down his pen.

Of course, she was not the first.

It was unsurprising that the other woman in their life would creep into his thoughts, even as he thought of Belle. 

The difference, of course, was that Regina had been tied to them through no choice of her own.

Isabelle, on the other hand, had looked him in the eye, not once but thrice, and made the decision herself. 

Jamie removed his eye glasses and rubbed his weary eyes. 

It never ceased to amaze him how exhausting dealing with paperwork could be. 

All the same, while his wife and son were elsewhere, he knew the paperwork must be seen to. He had allowed himself several days of happy diversion in Belle's company, but the business would not run itself, and even if his fortune was quite secure, it was always better to ensure that ones assets did not falter. 

A cup of tea sat close at hand, slowly going stone cold, and he muttered and cursed to himself, checking facts and figures until he heard the front door open. The two dear voices echoed in the hall, and Jamie smiled, setting down his pen once more and hurrying to the door. 

He paused to straighten his waistcoat and cravat, then emerged. "Have you done spending my money already?" he demanded in mock ire. 

Bellamy was brushing raindrops off his sleeves. "Alas, father," he said, "the rain has save some small part of it."

Jamie eyed him doubtfully, then turned to his smiling wife, offering her his hand. Her fingers alighted upon his and he bowed over them. "How do you find out fair capital, my Lady?" he asked, raising his eyes to her. "Is it to your satisfaction?"

Her cheeks were aglow from exertion and she nodded. "It is liek a labyrinth tossed across a maze with a puzzle poked into the place in between," she said, which drew a chuckle from him at such accuracy. "But I like it well enough." Her smile brightened her features as he squeezed her fingers gently. "Are your estates anything like these parts?"

Jamie snorted. "Not in the least," he said. "Flat and dull and covered in demmed nature."

Bellamy grinned. "He makes it sound terribly dull," he said, "But have no fear, mama dearest. You be very much entertained." His eyes danced, no doubt thinking in fondness of his relationship with the woman who was his step-grandmother. "There is much for a little cat to bury her claws in."

"Bellamy!" Jamie could not help but snap at the thought of Isabelle in confrontation with Regina. He had no doubt she could hold her own, but that was neither here nor there.

His son bowed extravagantly, apology in his eyes. "Excuse me, father," he said. "I shall strive not to steal your petname for your little wife."

Belle drew her hand from Jamie's to remove her hat. "You had best not," she said, her eyes shining. "As you observed, the cat's claws are sharp." Her expression was innocent, bordering on virtuous. "You would not wish to make me cross again?"

Jamie stared at her in wondering delight, then spun about. "Lud! McEwan! Secure the china cabinet!" he called. "The Duchess is professing to be cross."

Bellamy gave a great shout of laughter. "That was your crime, father," he said, shedding his damp coat.

Jamie grunted, though a smile tripped upon his lips as his wife leaned closer and kissed his cheek, soft as a feather. "That does not repair a damaged cup, woman," he grumbled, though he took the opportunity to slip an arm around her slim waist, drawing her near.

"Would that I knew that a mere peck to the cheek would soften you up," his son said mournfully. "I would have not been in such trouble in my childhood had I such a tool at my disposal."

Jamie gave him a look. "You overestimate your appeal, my boy," he said, then gently loosed his grip on his wife. "Now, off with you, and into something more suitable for dinner." His fingers drew on the stained fabric of her skirt. "As much as marching about in the grime with this rogue suits you, it is hardly dinner attire."

With her maid, she vanished up the stairs with a backwards glance and a smile. 

"What news?" Bellamy murmured, leaning closer. "The couriers should have been by now."

"It seems your machinations are guiding the pieces into play," Jamie replied, motioning for his son to follow him back into the study. Bay nodded, draping his coat over the banister, and they went into the smaller room, closing the door. Jamie sat down at the desk. "How did she find the city?"

Bellamy grinned. "I quite terrorised her with the tales of Arthur's seat and how we shall all be buried in lava and ash," he said. "My dear little mama is quite the little brute, if you must know."

"When you torment her, I am not surprise," Jamie said with a chuckle. "You found her a suitable wardrobe?"

"She will be the envy of London, if you make an effort to show your face there again," his son confirmed. "She kept insisting it was all too much and too grand until I threatened to tie her sash about her mouth and keep her from talking." He held out a leg. "Look. You can see where she kicked me in the shin."

"You complain like a hungry child," Jamie snorted, sifting through the papers on the desk and finding the latest letter from the London courier. "Let this distract you for a moment."

Bellamy took the pages, perching on the edge of the desk and flicking through one after another, his dark eyes scanning through the particulars. Occasionally he made a brief, approving sound, and thus diverted, Jamie left him to his reading and returned to his own letters.

Finally, Bellamy folded the pages together and offered them back to his father. "The trap is well baited," he said. "And if Aston keeps himself on this course, he will set it quite nicely."

Jamie took the pages, slipping them into one of the secure drawers of the desk. "He seems a very headstrong creature," he said.

"Says the quiet little churchmouse," Bellamy snorted. "Remind me, father, did you steal your first wife, then marry your second after meeting her but three time?"

Jamie pushed his chair back and rose. "And both have been decisions well-made, I see naught to be ashamed of," he said. "There is little wrong with being married unexpectedly to a beautiful woman with wits of her own." He nodded towards the door. "Now, go and change for dinner, else Belle and I will begin without you."

"I believe that was your intention all along," Bellamy said sternly, though there was a fond look in his eye.

"Off with you!"

His son laughed, slipping out of the room and closing the door. 

At the dinner table, he allowed Bellamy to take the lead once more. If he was given to speaking, then Isabelle would doubtless ask them about their home, which would lead to discussion of the Dowager, and that…

He was a coward, of that he was well aware.

It felt better to have one more night of peaceful innocence, before Belle learned of the family she had married into, of his father, of his stepmother, of a history that he had tried his utmost to shield his precious son from. 

When she did not turn him from her door or her bed, he could have fallen to his knees and clung to her from the relief of it.

For a brief time, he was able to free his mind from thoughts of Westfell and what lay ahead, lavishing all his affection upon his wife. He wondered if she realised how bold she was being, for he remembered that it was almost six months before he saw Eliza fully unclothed. Belle allowed him much, and when offered modesty and propriety, it was she who nestled close to him, flesh to flesh.

He was not in the least surprised that Belle slept well, curled close to him. Her dark hair was a cascade against his arm and chest, and as much as he could by the dim light, he watched her sleep. It was better than allowing darker thoughts to cloud his mind, as he knew they would. He could not rest easily, not until they were at Westfell and he did not have to worry anymore.

It was shortly after dawn when he roused her, loathing to do so, but knowing it was better than being caught up with the market carts and traders on the road.

While she dressed, he received the news sheets and went through any early morning correspondence. Bellamy rapped on the door of the study.

"Father?"

"Come!"

His son entered. "The carriages are ready when we are," he said, though he paused. "Lud, papa. Have you slept at all?"

"I was abed," Jamie said, waving away his concern. He set down the papers. "Are you ready?"

Bellamy nodded. "And mama?"

"Descending momentarily," Jamie replied, following his son back into the lobby. McEwan was waiting there and helped him into his coat, then withdrew to the carriages outside. Jamie folded his hands behind his back and looked up in expectation when Belle's door opened. She greeted them both with a smile as she descended, but it was not the smile that caught Jamie's eye.

A broad ribbon was fastened about Belle's neck, hiding the more ardent marks of affection that he had left behind.

He offered a hand with a gleam in his eyes. "Good morning, my Lady," he said politely, his gaze fastening upon her neck. "A new accessory?"

He looked up in time to see her eyes narrow playfully. "I believe it is quite fashionable," she said, though her cheeks flushed warmly

Jamie bowed over her hand to hide his delighted grin. "I am quite certain I could make it so for you," he offered, admiring the way she shivered when he kissed the back of her hand through the lace of her glove.

Bellamy cleared his throat. "Father," he said impatiently, "If you intend to moon over mama, could you not keep it to the bedchamber?"

Jamie's lips twitched and he met Belle's eyes. "I can do as I please," he said. "After all, it is my carriage."

Belle's eyes widened, and she blushed brilliantly. "Husband!"

She looked so mortified that he felt quite sheepish for teasing her, so new a bride. "Your pardon, my Lady," he said. "That was uncalled for." He kissed her hand again, more gently in apology. "Come. We should be on our way." He led her out to the carriage. "If we make good time, we may reach Westfell by nightfall."

The carriage rattled and rocked it way out of the city, though the noise and bustle meant that barely a word could be exchanged until they were well beyond the fringes of the capital. That, of course, was when the matter of Westfell's other resident was broached again.

Belle was looking at Bellamy when she asked, "You mentioned your grandmother."

Jamie's heart felt like it clenched in his breast, and he saw Bellamy's eyes dart to him, concerned.

"Ah," Bellamy said quietly, "you remembered that."

Belle inclined her head. "I did," she said quietly. "You said your presence would soften the blow?" She looked at Jamie, who could not bring himself to look at her, his jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Her voice near broke his heart when she asked uncertainly, "Am I expected to be such a disappointment?"

That she could think such a thing was nonsense. "Not in the least." His voice came out sharp and brittle. "And what she thinks is not a matter to be concerned with."

Belle looked at him in puzzlement. "Is she not your mother?"

His who body felt tense as a wire, as he thought of all the things Regina was and had been to him. "No," he said shortly. "She is not my mother."

His wife sank back in the seat, and only when Bellamy exclaimed did he realise her worry.

"Oh no!" His son's voice was quick to reassure. "No, mama, have no fear." The boy was smiling, albeit nervously. He had never understood the reason his family was shattered, and it was better that it remained so. "She is not my true Grandmother. She is the Dowager Duchess, my grandfather’s second wife and widow.”

Jamie looked darkly out of the window. “She’s a grasping bitch."

Bellamy shot him a pained look.

“The Dowager Duchess?" Belle asked tentatively. He could hear her anxiety in her voice. "And she lives at the estate, still?”

Jamie looked at her, her gentle features soothing his temper. He reached out to take her hand, seeking the comfort that her touch afforded him, the assurance that he was not so terrible and corrupt a man as he fears. "I had not thought to mention her," he said finally, "for she has no part in our affairs." It was a lie, in part, but it was also his wish. That Regina was inclined to ignore his desires out of some wilful need to prove herself did not concern him. "As my father’s widow, she has the rights to a small house on the land, so you will doubtless meet her, even if I would prefer never to see her again.”

“She likes to believe she should still have a say in the keeping of the estate,” Bellamy added, with a quick smile that did not entirely conceal his fondness. “She cannot seem to comprehend that my grandfather is long since gone, and even if she was the lady of the house, she is no longer.”

Belle looked surprised. “There is another?”

Bellamy's face lit in a sunny smile. "Of course, mama," he said.

For a moment, Belle looked alarmed. "Sure, if she knows the household..." she began.

Jamie held her hand fast, hoping to assure her. “It is your household now, Belle,” he said quietly. “She might wish and believe it hers, but you are my wife, and the household is yours.” He pressed a kiss to her palm. “Do not trouble yourself with her.”

She looked at him, then away, a flush colouring her cheeks. Did she believe herself unworthy, he wondered, or did she simply doubt her ability to be the Lady of the house? Did she not know that her presence was the one he desired, regardless of her skill in household management? He withdrew his hands from hers, lacing them together in his lap, and glanced out of the window at the world rumbling by.

How long they had sat in silence, he did not know, but all at once, Belle's small hand covered his. his fingers seemed to unravel of their own accord, and she slipped her palm into his. Little by little, she moved closer to him, and all at once, she was leaning snugly against his arm, looking up at him.

Jamie looked down at her, his brave little wife, undetered by his ill-temper, dark moods, and sudden silences.

Her blue eyes searched his face. "Tell me of the places we pass?" she suggested softly, brushing aside the thick tension that had filled the carriage for the past few miles.

He nodded, at once, drawing her closer, and if Bellamy smiled in approval, he did not indicate that he had noticed.

Some hours later, they stopped to change the horses, and to eat. Once they were done, Jamie offered Belle his arm to stretch her legs, walking with her down to the banks of the river.

They stood on the soft grass, watching ducks paddling this way and that. “I must apologise,” he murmured, framing the words as carefully as he could, “if I startled you with my manner. There was no excuse for using such language before a lady.”

She did not look at him, though he could see that her features were drawn a little tighter as she gazed at the water. “Do you have cause for speaking of her so?”

When he laughed, it was wearily, sadly. “She believes it her right to rule in my house,” he said, remembering the years that Regina had been his right hand, even when Eliza lived, and then how matters had fallen apart. He looked at his new wife. “I am not one to appreciate that. It did not please me when my father died. It does not please me any better now.”

She nodded gravely. "I imagine not."

It seemed to comfort her, to know why he had been in such an ill mood, for when they returned to the carriage, she nestled against him, her head upon his shoulder. Such quiet affection and attentiveness was so very unfamiliar, and Jamie could not keep himself from putting his arm about her, even as she drifted into a gentle doze.

Bellamy was wearing a soft, silly expression when Jamie chanced to glance at him.

"Hush," he murmured.

Bellamy smiled. "I said nothing, papa," he murmured, lacing his hands over his own belly and closing his eyes.

It was dark by the time they reached Westfell, though the house was lit in readiness for their arrival. Jamie gently shook Belle awake, and motioned to the window. Her eyes widened in wonder as she looked out. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

Jamie smiled fondly at her. "It is," he said, not talking about the house at all.

The carriage rattled down the drive, and even before it stopped, Jamie was on his feet, opening the door to leap down. The sooner Belle was safely ensconced in the house, the sooner they were settled and rested, the sooner he could stop worrying about his stepmother.

He turned with a smile for Belle, which froze at a familiar voice calling his name from the house, the place that was to be his and Belle's home.

He did not need to turn. He did not need to look.

It was Regina.


	13. Chapter 13

Jamie felt like the blood in his body had turned to ice, flowing out from the point on his arm where Regina's hand rested. He wanted to push her back, drive her away, but every part of him seemed rooted to the spot, as if by being still and silent, he could imagine she was not there. As if he did not wish to turn on her and drive her from his home.

It was for Bellamy that he had always allowed her to remain, for it would break his son's heart to go without the woman who was mother in all but name.

That same boy leapt from the carriage with a cry of “Grandmother! My dearest Grandmama!”

Regina withdrew her touch from Jamie, turning her attentions to Bay. "Bellamy," she said, holding out her hands to him as if she was his own blood, his kin, beloved. “Must I continue to implore you to call me anything but that wretched name?”

Jamie turned his face from them both, bracing his hand against the side of the carriage. 

She touched him. She believed him returned because their argument was done with. She thought he had come back so unseasonably early for her. She believed it could be so simple, when she had laughed as she had then. Wearing Eliza's nightgown, brushing her hair with Eliza's brush, settling herself in Eliza's bed, lying with Eliza's widower.

"Why should we not be married?" she had asked. "We can be as we should be. Bay can have a mother, and I can be your Duchess."

He remembered looking at her in puzzlement, asking why she would want to be Duchess again, why she would imagine he would want to marry again. She kissed him, her hand upon his heart, and whispered, "Because they are gone and you are the Duke. You need a Duchess." She smiled, as if she had not stabbed him through the heart with her words. "Eliza would not mind."

She should not have used her name. Not her name, not in her bed, not while wearing her clothing, using her possessions.

He sat up then, turned away from her, feeling light-headed and ill. 

"You are not Eliza," he said, his voice shaken. "Do not imagine you can replace her."

She looked at him, her face pale, though he had never understood if it was shock or indignation. "You are my family!" she cried. "Mine as much as hers! Have I not proven myself? Have I not done all that I can to serve your family? Can I not have this?"

And there was the birth of the terrible thought, the thought of a half-mad girl smothering her husband to be free of him. A girl become a woman who cared for Bellamy with a love that outstripped his own mother's. A wife without a husband. A mother without a child. She had the ghosts of the things she wanted most. What would she have done to have them again, have them both, when they lay so easily within her reach?

He flinched when a soft hand touched his arm, lifting his head to find Belle standing before him. Good, sweet Belle, confusion in her expression.

She had never given him cause to doubt, or to fear her intentions.

He had never been given cause to think that she would kill simply to get what she wanted. 

Belle threaded her fingers through his, the softness of her touch calming him, easing the treacherous thunder of his heart for a moment, until Regina spoke.

“And who is this little dear?” 

Jamie's hand tensed around Belle's, and he lowered his other hand from the side of the carriage to turn, to force himself to face her. “May I present Isabelle Goldacre, Duchess of Rutherglen, madam,” he said, anticipating and unsurprised by the look of fury and betrayal in Regina's dark eyes. "My wife."

Belle's hand was cold in his as Regina approached, staring at Belle as if she were the enemy.

“A new bride?” she said. “This wee little thing?” All at once, she took Belle's chin in her hand, tilting her face up, and Jamie felt a burn of bitter terror at the thought of what Regina might be capable of doing to her. Regina's eyes flicked to Jamie, then Regina leaned closer and kissed the air close to Belle’s cheek. “Congratulations, my dear.”

Belle was pale. "Th-thank you," she said, smiling uncertainly. "I hope we can be friends.”

“That would be lovely.” Regina murmured. Jamie knew her well enough to know when she lied.

Bellamy interceded mercifully, looping his arm through Regina's. “Oh, you’ll adore Isabelle, Grandmother,” he said. “She’s a dear.”

Jamie could see the suspicion and loathing in Regina's eyes. “I imagine so,” she said, smiling darkly. “She must be something very special to have captured your attention, James.”

Jamie bowed stiffly, barely enough to be considered polite. “Indeed, madam,” he said, his tone curt. “She is a lady.” Regina almost bared her teeth at him, and he lifted Belle’s hand and set it on his arm. His heart was drumming savagely and he knew he would lash out, curse her for looking at Belle with such anger. “If you will excuse me, madam, my wife and I are weary. We wish to retire.”

Regina could not protest as he put his arm around Belle's waist and drew her up the staircase to the house.

He was almost shaking with fury, with grief re-awoken. He had hoped and prayed that she would be gone. He had brought Isabelle back to this house, this place that was once his home, because he wanted her to be safe from sharp words, prying eyes, deception, and now, Regina was still here, defiant, as if he had not cast her out to the Dower house, as if she had the right to live in his home. 

Belle was hurrying alongside him, her skirts gathered up in her free hand, and she did not speak.

Regina had distressed her. Regina had brought distemper once more. 

All he knew was that he needed to be somewhere private, somewhere safe, somewhere sacrosanct, where he could hold his wife and be held by her, and be reassured that he was not as Regina made him believe himself to be. She could be cruel when she chose, and she knew him well, knew his failings.

He had lain with her when Eliza was scarce two months buried. What manner of faithful husband did that make him? He had betrayed his wife's memory. He had defiled his father's marriage bed. He had sinned more times than he cared to count with her. He had brought her into his own marital bed, where she believed she had the right to be. They had used on another, he for comfort, she...

He didn't know anymore. He didn't know and it was tearing at his mind.

He needed Belle's small smiles, her gentleness, her calm, her reassurance that he was worthy of her touch, of having a wife, of perhaps - one day - being loved. He needed her.

Somehow, they had reached the doors of his chamber, and he threw them open, only releasing Belle to turn and slam the doors. He did not wish to be angry, not here, not with his wife, but his blood was boiling at the look on Regina's face, the look that told him she would not forget nor forgive him for taking a woman who was not her to wife.

“That thrice-damned bitch,” he whispered, his hands closed about the door handles. It almost was enough to stop them shaking.

Belle was still silent for a long moment. "She is very beautiful.” Her voice was quiet, careful. “Younger than I expected.”

Jamie let his head fall forward to rest against the door. "Yes," he said blankly. "She is." She always had been, he remembered. Dark and striking and when she smiled, she was dazzling, but when she was angry, she was like a woman possessed. He forced himself to peel his hands from the handles. It was easier to be calm now that the world was shut out, and he drew breath after steadying breath. “I am sorry, my dear. I had no notion she would be waiting to catch us on arrival.”

“So I saw,” Belle said quietly. “And fond of you.”

Jamie felt as if she had struck him in the chest, turning sharply to look at his wife. “What the devil makes you say that?”

She looked up at him impassively. “A lady does not wait by the door for hours for a man she does not care for,” she said. 

His arms crossed his chest uneasily. So she saw something of the corruption that was there? She saw what had been, that dark, twisted, broken relationship? No wonder she could scarce seem to look at him nor speak to him. “Regina is no lady,” he said darkly. 

Belle gazed at him. “Regina?”

It was not a smile that curved his lips. He knew it was not. It was too sharp, to painful, and he whispered. “Our friend, the Dowager Duchess.” He turned his gaze to her, his wife, so different, so good, so pure. Oh by God, he needed her to calm him, her small hand in his, her lips to his brow, anything to drive the demons from his mind. His legs felt weighted with lead as he drew closer to her. "I should have known she wouldn’t leave me in peace.”

“You said that her thoughts do not matter,” she said quietly, rising from the chest she was sitting upon.

"No," he agreed, catching her hands, her gentle hands. "They do not." He kissed her hands urgently, desperately. "She does not have any say in what I do nor whom I choose to be with.” He looked up at her bright blue eyes, those kind eyes that had never condemned him for his reputation. “She has no place here.”

She drew her hands from his to his despair, taking away that anchor to some kind of peace of mind. "It has been a long day," she said, stepping back, away from him, away from what she now saw in him. He felt his heart breaking, shaking his head. "I would rest."

"No," he said, pleading, catching her by the shoulders, pulling her back to him, his hands shaking. If she believed him so terrible upon one brief exchange with Regina, if she despised him, if she turned him away, he could not bear it. "Belle, I would have you."

She looked startled. "Now?"

He could not speak, could not find words to explain, and could only kiss her, trying to express his need, his need for her touch, his need for her as his wife. She turned her face from his, and he pressed his lips to her throat instead, her shoulder, his hands fumbling with her gown.

Her small hands were at his shoulder, and he felt her press against him. "James," she whispered. "James, not tonight."

He raised his head, searching her face. Surely she did not hate him so, not as Regina did. "I must Belle," he whispered, guiding her back to the bed. If Belle would not have him, if she would be turned from him by his past, if she saw in him all that he saw, he knew he would falter. “Belle, she has no place here, not any." His hands spanned her waist, stroking her sides, and his voice, he knew was all but begging, "You are my wife. Be my wife.”

He felt her hands upon his shoulders, and she spoke, he heard her speak, but the words were a haze.

He was trembling and remembering the last woman who had lain in this bed, who had lied to him. She was not Belle. She was not here. Belle was. Belle, whom he loved, who had touched him with such fondness only twenty-four hours earlier. She drew away from him again, and he had to draw her back, hold her, try to make her understand, try to see past the ghosts that shadowed this bed, this bed where so much betrayal had happened. He needed truth, honesty here. He needed her to drive the shadows back, to be the light in a world of darkness.

He hardly saw her move when something struck his face, something enough to make him shy back, startled.

Belle was looking up at him with an expression he had seen once before, when he had roused her from her nightmare on their wedding night. She scrambled back away from him, across the bed, off the other side, and when she snatched the poker from the grate, held it in hands shaking violently, he felt bile rise in his throat.

He could see her dress was a tangle, and now, only now, did he realise her hands had not been drawing him closer. 

No. 

No.

She had been pushing him away. When she said please, it was not from desire.

Her upper arms were reddened, her eyes filled with tears, and she was staring at him with such fear.

On trembling legs, he slowly circled the bed, shame and grief at causing her pain racing through him. he raised his hands, open-palmed, empty, but knew that would not, could not, would never be enough. He did not need anything in his hands to hurt her. "Belle..." he whispered.

She backed away further, holding up the rod. "You will not touch me so again," she whispered, tears spilling down her ashen cheeks. "You will not have me when I say no." He shrank back, horrified, ashamed, stricken. "You will not touch me when you are thinking of naught but her."

His legs would not hold him, not now, and he fell to his knees, spreading his shaking hands by his sides. “Strike me, my lady,” he said, bowing his head. “I have earned that.”

She did not hit out at him, though he wished she would. 

“What is she to you?” she asked in a trembling voice. Every word, every tremor in her voice, every barely smothered sob cut at him like blades. “What cause could she have to make you behave so? Where is the husband I knew?”

"Belle..." His own eyes were burning, and his voice sounded like that of a stranger. “Belle, forgive me.”

He could hear her breathing hard, small, rapid, quivering breaths. “I would have my own room,” she said unsteadily. “I would have a room with a lock.”

He looked up, stricken, but what right had he to keep her in this room where monsters and cruelty lurked? "As you wish," he whispered. It was his hand that had driven him from her after all, not Regina's. He tried to rise and his legs quaked beneath him. “Are…” he hesitated, barely able to comprehend what he had so very nearly done. His voice shook. “Did I hurt you?”

She stared at him as if he were a stranger, a small, broken sob escaping her. “You, who know my nightmares, ask that?”

Jamie flinched, backing away. By God, he was as terrible as the fate she had married him to escape. “Belle, oh Belle,” he said, his voice trembling as much as hers. “I did not intend…”

She shook her head. “Please,” she whispered. “A room.”

Jamie's mouth was dry as bone. He backed across the room, unable to take his eyes from her face, his hands open and empty by his sides. He rang for a servant, then remained by the door, lowered his eyes. He had wronged her, he had wronged her so terribly.

McEwan mercifully was the one to come.

Jamie looked across the room at Belle, at her tears, her white face, the poker. "McEwan," he said, his voice rasping in his throat. "My lady is weary. She would have a private room." He took a steadying breath. "Take her to the winter chamber."

McEwan glanced between them and seemed to see enough to know it was a matter of discretion. "My lady?" he murmured.

Belle walked slowly across the room, and he did not move, did not do more than look at her, whisper an apology, that was impossibly worthless in the face of his crime. She drew back from him as she passed him, and as her footsteps and McEwan's faded, he sank down against the doorframe, closing his eyes. 

She was a good, brave woman and his actions - and his alone - had driven her from him. Regina might have alarmed her, but he was the one who hurt her and frightened her and damn near...

Jamie pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Christ.

He had, in his selfish idiocy, undone everything.

Footfalls in the hall should have made him stir, but he felt weary to the bone, aching and hollow.

"Papa?" Bay leaned in the door, then swore, coming down on one knee. "Lud, papa! What has happened?"

Jamie lowered his hands from his eyes and looked at his son. "I did," he said bleakly. He jerked his head towards the door. "Go to Isabelle. The winter chamber. She will have need of your company."

"Papa..." Bay reached out to touch him, but he deserved no compassion, no kindness.

"Go!" he snarled, recoiling back from his son's hand. "Give your comfort to one who needs it." He scrambled to his feet ungracefully and away from his son. "Get out of here."

Bellamy was silent for a long moment. "I will return shortly," he said quietly, "to give my comfort to one who needs it."

Jamie did not dare to look at him, nor turn. It was taking all his strength to stay on his feet and he waited until Bellamy withdrew before he stumbled to the cabinet that contained a bottle of his preferred Scotch. He filled one glass, then another, with shaking hands. It did little to help, little to soothe, and he caught a movement in the corner of his eye.

His reflection stared back at him.

Half-wild.

Half-mad.

He remembered that expression.

He remembered being under the rod, as that expression looked down at him, as he was thrashed to within an inch of his life. The same expression had looked back at him when he tried to protect his young, terrified stepmother when she had fled to his home for sanctuary. Her bruises, her wounds, were not his business. That was what that expression had said to him.

And now, his wife bore those same bruises, and almost those same wounds.

Jamie doubled over, bracing his hand against the cabinet, vomiting up everything he had drunk.

His father.

He was becoming his father.

He fled the room, like the coward he was, fled the comfort Bay would doubtless come to offer, comfort he did not deserve. He took the bottle with him. It might at least stifle the suffocating shame and guilt twisting around him, the hate of the man who had sired him, the hate of the tainted blood in his veins.

How he found himself in the long gallery, he did not know, but faces of ancestors looked down on him, face after face, sliced across by moonlight and darkness. He slunk into the shadows beneath the image of his father, the father who had always denied his parentage, who called him bastard, but who had still put enough of his blood into him to make him as he was.

The Duke of Rutherglen had a notorious temper. The Duke of Rutherglen fought duels. The Duke of Rutherglen fought any who wronged him. The Duke of Rutherglen forced himself upon his wife.

Jamie shuddered.

For so long, he thought he had escaped his father's taint, but it seemed it was not so.

Bellamy found him there, God only knew how many hours later.

Jamie's feet were stone cold, bare on the marble floor, and the bottle in his hand was empty. He should have felt the comforting haze of intoxication, but all he felt was empty and numb.

Bellamy said nothing at first, only sitting down beside him.

A gilded clock ticked monotonously in the silence.

"Isabelle?" Jamie asked in a whisper, finally.

"Sleeping, I think," Bellamy replied quietly. "Her maid is with her."

Jamie closed his eyes, breathing shallowly.

"Papa," Bellamy said after long moments of silence, "what happened?"

Jamie shook his head. "Did you know your grandfather was a sadistic bastard?" His voice sounded like it was coming from a thousand miles away. "Did you know?"

Bellamy shook his head. "You and Grandmama never said," he said quietly.

Jamie rose unsteadily and turned to look up at the portrait above him. "Not a pleasant man," he said. "People always said I was like him." The bottle slipped from his fingers and he heard it crack and splinter on the marble. "Like father, like son." He ran his hands over his face. They were still shaking. He didn't know why. The drink. The nerves. The guilt. The truth. "Christ, Bay. I've ruined everything."

His son was in front of him suddenly, warm, broad hands on his shoulders, and he was drawn forward. Bay ran a hand over his hair, drawing Jamie's head down to rest their brows against one another. 

Jamie felt light-headed, too much drink, too little food, too much grief, too much... just too much. 

"I'm here with you, papa," Bay said softly. "Whatever happens."

Jamie knew he should make a pretence of strength, of dismissal, but he felt shattered and exhausted. His head fell forward to rest on Bay's shoulder, and he closed his eyes. Bay's fingers ran over his head, and came to rest lightly against his neck.

"We'll be all right, papa," Bay whispered. "I promise."


	14. Chapter 14

Jamie slept little through the night.

Bellamy had not let him out of his sight, and when he stirred to full consciousness, it took him a moment to recall where he was.

He was lying on his side on his son's bed, and unlike his own chamber, the morning light did not cut through the window so sharply. His son's room was spartan and elegant and hardly what one would imagine when one looked at the flamboyant creature that the Marquis of Cathkin presented in public. 

He turned slowly, lest he wake Bellamy, and found his son already sitting at his small dresser, which had become a writing desk by degrees. The curtain had been drawn open a chink to allow some little bit of light in, and Bellamy glanced up, catching the movement in the mirror. He turned at once.

"Good morning, papa."

"If you believe so," Jamie said. His voice was hoarse, and when he sat up, his head throbbed unbearably. He put his hand to his brow. "What time is it?"

"Barely past eight," Bellamy replied. "I advised the staff to have breakfast prepared for nine." He set down his pen. "I asked Isabelle to join me. As will you."

Jamie felt ill. "I hardly think that a good idea," he said.

"Good idea or not, you shall not hide yourself away," Bellamy's voice was sharp as a blade. "What right have you to closet yourself away like a coward? You have done her wrong, and so you must face her."

"And if she does not wish to see me?" Jamie said, shaking his head. "Bay, she will not want to see me."

"Let her decide," Bellamy said curtly. "I made it clear that you may be present. If she does not wish to attend upon you, then let it be her choice. You do not get the right to hide from what you have done, papa." Jamie swung his legs over the side of the bed, and swayed, unsteady. "Lud, papa, do you not see that letting a wound fester will only make matters worse? You must face this matter."

Jamie raised his eyes to his son. "You have no notion of what you are asking," he said dully. "Bay, I harmed her. I marked her. Would that I had let you and Blanche find someone unlike Aston or myself..."

"Damn you, father!" Bellamy exclaimed furiously. "What the deuce do you mean, comparing yourself to that bastard?"

Jamie's eyes narrowed at him. "I mean that I am as much a brute as him," he said. "Did you not see the marks upon her. How can you say I am any better?"

"Because you give a damn about the injury you have done her!" Bellamy said, rising to his feet in anger. "Father, you have erred, but you regret it! How does this make you as terrible as the man who would have bound her and beaten her into submission?"

Jamie looked down at his hands. "It does not change the fact that I harmed her."

His son approached the bed and crouched down before him, clasping Jamie's hands between his own. "I know," he said quietly. "But please, papa, do not believe yourself to be as terrible as Aston." His son leaned forward, closer, to catch his eyes. "Will you come downstairs with me?"

Jamie gazed at him and nodded. "But if she is distressed," he warned, "I shall depart."

"Of course," Bellamy agreed. "Now, go and dress. You look like a street urchin."

It felt like he moved as an automaton, his body held up by some force than he could neither feel nor see. He was so very tired, but he allowed his man to shave him and dress him, then reluctantly made his way down the stairs and to the dining room, where breakfast would be laid out.

Belle was not yet present, and he picked at his food, lost in thought at how he might best make amends. 

"You look as if you might trip upon your face," Bellamy murmured, buttering himself a thick slice of bread.

Jamie raised his eyes to his son. "You exaggerate," he said, lifting one hand to rub at his eyes. 

Bellamy pulled a face, then paused before biting into his bread, looking at the door. 

Jamie turned and immediately scrambled to his feet. Belle was there, standing poised and elegant, the embodiment of calm, if one did not look at her eyes. He wanted to speak. By God, he wanted to speak a thousand words, but every one of them died a quiet death upon his lips. 

She looked at him for what felt like an eternity, and she was so pale. "Good morning," she finally said, approaching the table.

Jamie knotted his hands before him to keep himself from reaching for her.

"Good morning, mama," Bellamy said. He must have waved for the maids for there was a flurry of activity, but Jamie neither looked nor cared, his eyes darting between his bruisingly clasped hands to her face and back. She was being brave, so what excuse had he for wishing to hide from her sight?

She walked forward, her footsteps so light on the carpet that she made not a sound, until she stood bare an arm's length from him. She was quite white with fear, but she still lifted one hand from her side, extending it towards him.

"Belle..." he breathed, wishing he had half her courage.

“Will you not kiss my hand, husband?” she asked, her voice deceptively calm, but for the slightest of tremors.

Jamie could scarce believe she would allow him within the same room, let alone to touch her once more. He tore his hands apart from one another, catching her hand upon his right, to lift it to his lips. the brush of contact was more than he could have hoped for and he drew back in an instant, lest it was too much. 

Bellamy interceded. "Sit down, mama," he said. He was pouring tea for her. "You look quite exhausted."

She arranged her skirts, sitting down carefully in the seat adjacent to Jamie. "Yes," she said in a low voice. "I did not sleep especially well."

Jamie sank back down into his seat. "Nightmares?" he asked in a taut voice.

“Yes." Her eyes met his, and her expression was dull. "Dreadful ones.” She inclined her head. “And, for once, not Aston.”

Jamie flinched as if she had struck him.

"Belle, I cannot apologise enough,” he said quietly.

“No,” she agreed. “You cannot.” She fell silent as the maid approached to set the plate of food before her, then took up her cutlery and started to cut the food methodically into small, bite-sized pieces, her eyes downcast.

Jamie's hands twitched against the edge of the table. “Belle,” he began again.

Her eyes rose to his, dry and clear, though he could see the redness about her eyelids. “This is not a conversation I wish to have over breakfast,” she said. “You have apologised several times. You will continue to do so. Now, however, I am tired and hungry and covered in bruises. I do not want to have my appetite spoiled by apologies.”

Jamie subsided, lowering his eyes, and ran his thumbs along the edge of the table. 

Belle turned her attention to Bellamy, speaking to him of an encounter with Regina, which made Jamie's breath catch in distress. That he had harmed her was bad enough, but for her to encounter Regina unaided. Bellamy waved away his concerns by lamenting his lack of ability to ride, despite his grandmother's best efforts. 

“It could not be that you have no sense of balance,” Jamie offered quietly. “I swear you would fall off a step if you turned to briskly.”

“Oh, I have done,” Bellamy said amiably. His focus was utterly on Isabelle. “Would you ride with Grandmama, if she asked?”

“No.” Jamie said sharply. He remembered his father's fall from his own horse, the fall that might have been enough to kill him, but might not have been. He looked urgently at Belle. “No one should ride with her. She pushes too far and too fast." He wished he could explain, but all he could say was, "There have been accidents in the past.”

She looked at him. "“I do not ride,” she said quietly. “I did not have the opportunity to learn.”

Jamie could not have been more relieved with that knowledge. 

“Good,” he whispered. “Good.”

Belle looked away from him, back at her plate. It seemed that she had not lost her appetite, which relieved him, and he watched her from beneath his brows as Bellamy prattled. She did not speak, and though Jamie tried to add to the conversation, he could think of little to say.

He fell silent by and by, looking numbly at his hands that were resting - loosely folded - upon the table. How did one approach the wife one had almost assaulted? He did not know. He did not know what was meant to be said, how to make things right.

"Bay," Belle said, breaking the silence, "might I have a moment with your father?"

Jamie looked up at her, startled, then at Bellamy, a silent plea in his eyes.

Bellamy nodded, rising. "I shall take a pipe on the terrace," he said, making it clear to Jamie that if he was needed, if Belle needed someone to assist her, he was within earshot. It was safer for both of them, if Bellamy could be called on, if needed.

He watched Belle delicately dab her lips with the napkin, then set it down.

She was quiet and calm, and she looked at him. Jamie averted his gaze. "Do you recall," she murmured, "what you said to me, when I woke in our marital bed for the first time?" She gazed at him steadily. "Do you recall how you soothed me after that nightmare?”

“I do, my Lady,” he said quietly, raising his eyes to her. 

“Then why,” she asked, “should the rules be any different for you, husband?" She tapped one fingertip upon the polished table. "You forbid me to bring my past to our bed, and yet, you would bring yours.” She did not look away from him, and he lowered his eyes, ashamed. “Am I aught like that woman? Would you prefer that I was?”

His heart wrenched at the thought. "No!" He shook his head urgently. “Belle, you are nothing like her.” He was on his feet and around the table, on his knees beside her chair before he could catch a breath. He reached out and barely managed to stop himself from grasping her hand. His hands trembled in his lap. “You are nothing like her,” he repeated, his voice shaking. “I would not have you like her, not in any way.”

She looked at him, so grave and so sad, that he would that he could hold her, but he knew he could not. "What hold does she have on you?" she asked softly. "Why does she trouble you so that you would do as you did?"

He could not lie to her, not when he was at fault. “Once,” he said quietly, lowering his face, “I considered taking her to be my wife.”

She was still, so silent, that he wondered if she would rise, walk away from him then.

He trembled when she laid her hand upon his bowed head.

"Why did you not?" she asked quietly.

Jamie lifted his head and for a moment, her hand slipped, brushed his cheek. She withdrew it at once, and he mourned the loss. "You have seen what she does to me," he said quietly. “I am an ill-tempered man at the best of times. She brings out the very hottest of my blood, simply to amuse herself." He shook his head. I do not… appreciate what it causes in me.”

Belle stared searchingly at him. “Yet, you let her stay.”

Jamie looked towards the open doors, where Bellamy was waiting outside, his motherless son who loved his grandmother so dearly. “She all but raised Bay,” he said. “She was a mother to him, when Bay’s own mother was ill, and after she passed. He knows that I shall never care for the woman, but he does, and for him, she may stay.” He looked back at Belle. “I fear you shall know her as I know her, without the rose-tinted glass that Bay sees her through.”

“I fear I already have,” Belle said, a frown furrowing her brow.

Jamie flinched, grasping the arms of her chair to keep from clutching at her. “Did she harm you?” he asked urgently. “Did she touch you?”

The alarm on her face made him subside. "No," she said at once. "No more than to show me to this room." Her frown remained. "She spoke pleasantly enough, but I have known enough noblewomen who speak pleasantly but mean otherwise.”

Jamie's temper flared in outrage. "The damned bitch," he whispered, sinking back to sit on his heels. She would not threaten, not directly, of course. It was not her way. She had a gift with words. She could slide them like a dagger, when she wished to wound. He looked up at Belle, fearing what might happen if Regina used her wicked words against his new wife. “Promise me you shall not be alone with her, Belle. Have your maid or some other servant with you when you and she are alone.”

Belle looked at him in astonishment. “Do you believe she would harm me?”

He ran a hand over his face. It was shaking again, he noticed. “I do not believe so,” he said, looking up at her, “but all the same, I would not risk your well-being for anyone.” He sat heavily on his heels. “Would that we had stayed in London. At least there, we might have had peace.”

Her expression was unreadable, but she spoke gently, "There, we would have had Aston and all of society to contend with,” she said. She breathed deeply, as if gathering her courage, then reached out and touched his cheek, so gently it might have been a breath of wind. “I have met women like her before, husband. You have brought a cat into the house of a raging aging tabby.” She managed to smile at him. “This cat may be small and young, but do not doubt that her claws are sharp. She will do me no harm.”

He closed his eyes, turning his head to brush his lips to her palm. “Please God, I hope not,” he whispered. “Belle…”

She stifled his apology before it could free itself, smothering it with her fingertips. 

“No more,” she said quietly. “Will you promise that your thoughts are of me? That they will not stray to her?” He nodded urgently, and small shiver running the length of his spine as she drew her fingertips down his cheek. “I am still your wife." There was a gravity to her expression. "So I shall remain. But for now, in name only." She met his eyes, held them. "Do you understand?”

Jamie nodded. “Of course,” he said, his voice rasping. “Belle, I would never do such a thing again.”

She pushed her chair back, rising, away from him. “I do not doubt it,” she said , “but for now, let it be enough that I allow you near me.”

Jamie could no more rise than he could make the world turn backwards, and he bowed his head. Her hand brushed upon his hair, as if offering a blessing, but it was so much more. It was not forgiveness, not wholly, not yet, but it was something akin to mercy.

He closed his eyes, as she walked away from him, and there, he remained.


	15. Chapter 15

Jamie was at a loss.

Making amends was never his strong suit, and now, it was a skill he had a dire need of. 

Bellamy tried to provide a line of communication, when they met in the drawing room later in the afternoon, but Belle was saying little and Jamie knew that each time he tried to speak, he only dug himself a deeper grave. She looked at him, calm, placid, inscrutable, and he would feel like his words were sliding off the surface of a mirror, unwanted or needed.

Finally, he retreated from the room, leaving her to her book.

"Father," Bellamy came after him at once.

Jamie held up his hand sharply. "Don't speak to me, boy," he said. 

"Father, you need to give her time."

"Time?" Jamie turned on him. "When she will not even allow me to apologise?"

Bellamy nodded. "Time," he said evenly, "that she might come to terms with the fact you are not as much of a demmed gentlemen she believed you to be."

"I never made any allusion to the fact I was a gentleman," Jamie snapped. "In fact, it is commonly known about town that I am a veritable beast!" He started for the stairs, only for his son to grasp him by the arm, jerking him around with enough violence to shock him. "What the devil are you about?"

"What the devil I am about is the fact that you have your head in your arse!" Bellamy snarled. "This is naught to do with your guilt. By badgering her, you are pressing her to give you her forgiveness to make yourself feel less ashamed! That is not how forgiveness comes about: it is not up to you to dictate the terms! Forgiveness is not yours to demand! If you force your need for absolution on her, how are you being any less brutal than you were in your bedchamber?"

Jamie recoiled from him as if struck. "You have no right to speak so!"

"But I do, father," Bellamy said, standing toe to toe with him. His eyes were blazing. "Who else would dare?"

Jamie's right hand moved, and he only caught himself before he struck his son, whipping his arm back. By God, he was turning, even more than he had first believed. He would have struck his own child, as he had been struck in turn.

They stared at one another, each breathing as hard as the other.

"You are demmed insolent, boy," Jamie whispered, his hand falling to his side, shaking there.

"Honesty," Bellamy said. His voice was quieter now, calmer. "One of my best and worst traits." His fingers tightened briefly on Jamie's left arm. "You know I am the voice of common sense for you."

"Ha." Jamie looked down at his son's hand, then back up at Bellamy's face. How the boy could still look at him with such foolish affection, knowing he had almost been struck, Jamie could not say. "Can it be made right, Bay? Do you think she will forgive me?"

"That is not my place to say," Bellamy replied. "But you cannot make her forgive you, papa. It is her choice and hers alone."

Jamie felt his shoulders sag, as if great weights were lashed to him. "I can but hope," he said quietly. "I will be in my study." He turned, and started up the stairs, then paused, "Offer what excuses you must for me. I would not wish to put her ill at ease."

His son touched his shoulder. "I will take dinner with her, father," he said, "but I shall take supper with you."

Jamie stared up the staircase blindly, his vision blurred and hot. "You will be too fat for your demmed waistcoats," he said hoarsely. 

"Then I shall just have to buy more," Bellamy replied. "Father, you are no violent brute. You may closet yourself away, but that will not prevent me from seeing you as you are."

"God damn you, Bay," Jamie whispered, his throat raw. "Even after all you have heard in the past two days?"

"The past two days make no nevermind after two decades," Bellamy said simply. "I know you, papa, and I know you do not mean ill." His fingers squeezed Jamie's shoulder. "I know you have hardly slept since your wedding night, scarce a handful hours stolen here and there, and I know it is for reasons that are less pleasing than a new wife. You are exhausted to the point of barely even knowing yourself."

"You think so?" Jamie said unsteadily. "Perhaps this is why I do not mingle well with others. This is the side I close away in my study."

"Stuff and nonsense," Bellamy said quietly. "Tonight, you will get you to bed. You will dose yourself with laudanum and you will demmed well sleep. Things will seem better with a clear head."

Jamie had no heart nor will to dispute further. He only nodded and continued up the stairs. It had always been Bellamy's way, to believe the best of people. He believed it of Regina. And now, he was even more deluded if he did not imagine that his father had been - more than once - inclined to beat his enemies to a bloody paste.

He slammed the door hard behind him. 

Bellamy was right that he was exhausted, but his mind would not allow him to rest. The image of Belle looking at him with fear and distress was etched upon his memory. Sleep was out of the question. If he allowed it to come, she was there, shying from him, afraid, bleeding, and his hands were covered in her blood.

He kicked the nearest object, a footstool as hard as he could. It skidded across the floor, toppling over with a crash against the fireplace, taking the poker and coat scuttle with it. A decanter from the shelves followed, smashing into a thousand pieces in the grate, a shaft of sunlight sending glittering light splintering across the walls from the shattered crystal. 

It was pointless to keep a set when the bottle was smashed.

The glasses followed, one after another, smashing and clattering, and he was panting and swaying on his feet.

It felt as if something snapped within him, and all at once, he was tearing books from the shelves, hurling the ink well and papers from his desk. He heard McEwan knocking on the locked door, but ignored it, wrenching the carriage clock from the mantlepiece and bringing it down hard at his feet. 

There was a clattering crash as the door swung inwards.

Jamie whirled about, panting hard. His chest ached, and his vision was out of focus, but he recognised Bay's damned coat, the shade of blue too bright to be anyone else. His son caught him by the arms, driving him back, forcing him to fall into his seat.

"Papa," he said, catching Jamie's face between his hands. "Papa, can you hear me?"

Jamie struck at his arms. "I'm not deaf," he snarled, trying to push him back.

Bay slammed him back hard against the back of the chair. "Be still," he growled.

Jamie caught his son's arms. "Let me be," he retorted angrily. "I can do as I please."

"And smashing your study asunder is helping, is it?" Bay demanded, shaking him. "Papa, please, I know you are distressed, but this is not going to help!" Jamie stared blindly at him, then reluctantly sagged in his hold. Bay's grip remained steely. "Lud, I may even have to purchase new decor," he said with a strained, near fearful laugh.

Only then did Jamie realise how much he had frightened his child.

"The devil you shall," Jamie breathed, closing his eyes, trying to master himself. "My temper is no cause for you to buy fripperies."

Bellamy leaned forward, knocking his brow lightly against Jamie's. "One day, I shall find a cause," he whispered. "Papa, please."

Jamie pressed his hands to Bay's shoulders, squeezing them. Bay was trembling, his boy was trembling, shocked and afraid. That as much as Belle's terrified face brought him short. "Forgive me, my boy," he murmured. "Forgive a foolish old man."

Bay leaned forward then and embraced him hard. "I do, papa," he said softly. "If you promise to get your head out your arse."

Jamie laughed unsteadily. "We can see, but sometimes, you ask the impossible." They sat up together and he cuffed his son's cheek gently. "I think perhaps I should take some laudanum now." He looked around the ruin of his study. "Damnation."

Bay hauled him up to his feet. "I blame Aston," he said. "You were not able to strike the cove, and the outrage has been simmering since."

"Aye," Jamie murmured, walking unsteadily by his son. "Though I doubt it would have done well for me if I had kicked him in the bollocks."

"You would have felt better," Bellamy said.

Jamie nodded wearily. "I would," he murmured. 

His son steered him to his chamber, and fetched the laudanum from the small medicine cabinet. "I will have you woken for supper," Bellamy said. "You should at least be able to pretend to be civilised then, what."

"You may hope," Jamie said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "But I would doubt it." He accepted the laudanum soaked kerchief from his son, and inhaled deeply, sinking back against the pillows. "Indeed," he murmured vaguely, "I would believe it impossible for one such as I."

He felt his son's cool fingers brush his brow. "Rest," Bellamy murmured.

It worked well enough, and it was late in the evening when his son joined him for supper. 

They spoke lightly of unimportant things, and Bellamy watched him like a hawk for any sign that he had not been well-rested. He did not complain, nor show any manner of agitation, still wrapped in the somnolent torpor brought about by laudanum. His head felt vague and peaceful for a moment, and for that, he was grateful. 

"Before I forget," Bay said, withdrawing an envelope from his coat. "This came for you, while you were abed."

Jamie frowned, perplexed, and broke the seal. The soft cloud about his mind was enough to keep him from swearing aloud as he read the missive.

He set it down on the table. "This is unfortunate."

Bellamy took up the page and swore quite colourfully. 

"Mm." Jamie rubbed his face. "I will have to go to the yard. Demmed unfortunate." He struggled to sit up. "If they have done such damage, God knows I will need to be there to see it undone."

Bellamy started to speak, then fell silent for a moment.

"Hmm?" Jamie waved a hand. "Speak."

"What about Mama Belle?"

Jamie looked up at him, feeling tired and old and grave. "You have told me I should give her time," he murmured, "and I shall." He pushed himself upright in the chair. "It will be far safer for her to be here, until my mood is better mastered." He tapped one fingertip emphatically on the table. "I will not hurt her again."

"Papa..." Bellamy protested.

"I will not hurt her again," Jamie repeated insistently. "You shall look after her and keep her safe for me."

"And will you tell her of this?"

Jamie blinked at him. "On the morrow," he said. "I shall leave on the morrow, and I shall tell her it must be so."

Bellamy looked unhappy, but nodded. "If you believe it necessary."

Jamie took back the letter detailing the trouble at the yards. "Even without her presence, it would be," he said solemnly. "Tomorrow."


	16. Chapter 16

The city was bleak.

A thick squall had come in from the coast and was lashing against the windows of the Goldacre townhouse. the house was not unpleasant in and of itself, but it was vast and chilly and empty by comparison to Westfell. 

Jamie stood broodingly by the fireplace, puffing at his pipe. 

Four days had past since he had departed from his home, his wife, and his son. 

It was true that he could have ridden hard and reached Westfell in a matter of hours, but as soon as he crossed the threshold, he would have to depart once more, to return to the city and the ships that called on his notice. 

It was demmed inconvenient that his most trusted wright had taken ill, and the man brought in to replace him in Jamie's absence in London had proved less than upstanding in his work. They might yet make a profit on the demmed vessel, but it would be a close-run thing with all the material that had to be replaced.

The drunken fool had been turned out without a penny, and when he had protested and come after Jamie with a cudgel, Jamie had taken out days and weeks of frustrations upon the man's head, until his own men dragged him back, blood on his fists and his sleeves. 

It had done little to ease the knot of distemper in his breast.

His sleep was still troubled by dreams, most often of Belle, but Eliza often made herself known too. He had woken gasping at a nightmare of Regina putting a pillow upon Belle's face, smothering her as Jamie stood by and watched.

Bellamy had drawn an oath out of him that if he had trouble sleeping, he would dose himself with remedies to render himself insensate, for he would be no use to anyone at all, if he could barely stand with exhaustion.

As much as Jamie was loath to depend on such remedies, it had become necessary. 

The fire was burning low, so he crouched down and stirred it to fresh life, adding some more fuel to the flames. The wind whistled down through the chimney, making the tongue of flame dance and leap. Jamie gazed into the heart of them.

It was late already, but he wanted to send a letter home to Westfell.

God only knew he had been trying for days to construct something meaningful for Belle, yet each time he put ink to paper, the words had seemed trite and inconsequential, and he had ended up casting each one into the flames. 

Writing to Bellamy was a different matter. 

Brisk words, orders, instructions, and a postscript notifying him to ensure that Belle was well and cared for. 

Damn it all to hell.

He wanted to go home. 

He wanted to see if his wife yet remained.

He wanted to kneel before her and kiss her hands and vow that he would never be such a foolish and cruel bastard again.

Jamie sighed, knocking the remains of the smouldering tobacco from his pipe, and straightened up to set the pipe on the mantle. Belle had demanded no more apologies, and so, he could not give them, not until she would accept them.

He made his way to the windows. They were smaller and narrower than the newer house in Edinburgh, and were shuttered against the night. He unlatched one of the shutters, opening it to look out into the street. 

The city was grey and quiet as it often was when the rains swept in after the working day was done. He drew out his pocket watch and glanced at it, then sighed. It felt like such a waste to be sitting alone in a room, doing naught but looking out into the world and feel the press of his own guilt upon him. 

He went to the bell and rang for the footman, calling up his carriage.

Some half hour later, he was deposited at the steps of the cathedral and hurried into the building, his collar turned high against the rain. He was not a religious man, but even he - in times of turmoil - found that the great haven of the faithful could allow him a moment of respite and peace.

The body of the building was quiet and cool, with standing candleabra illuminating the colonnades. His footfalls echoed back to him as he made his way to the section of the Church allocated to the High Kirk. There were pews there, rigid, unyielding, high-backed benches, and he sat down, closing his eyes in the stillness.

Without the tick of the clock or the rattle of carriages, he could immerse himself utterly in silence.

He thought upon Belle, his wife. He loved her, which was quite ridiculous. What manner of man was he, if he held his wife so highly? He had never imagined it possible to hold someone of equal worth with his son, and yet, in the matter of some dozen days, she had become the world to him.

She had looked at him with kindness, with affection, and even after he would have harmed her, she put out her hand to him, braver than he could imagine a woman being. He wondered if it was possible to be worthy of her, when he had behaved so ill. 

Bellamy said she was in need of time, in need of peace, time to think without him stifling her, and so, she would have it.

If she remained.

He opened his eyes as his heart clenched painfully.

She had believed him a good man, not a brute like Aston, and he had proved her wrong. He would not fault her if she chose to return to her father, to the Cranbrook estates. 

Indeed, if she was gone when he returned, he would allow her to retain all title and honours that befitted her station, and all the wealth that she deserved. She was a Duchess. She would remain so, even if he only ever saw her at a distance. Aston would not touch her. She would have no need of such men again. 

If she departed.

Jamie propped his elbows upon his knees and buried his head in his hands.

Lud, it was all a damnable mess.

She was safe, for now. Safe in his house with Bellamy, unmolested and protected from a cruel world. She was safe from men like him, like Aston, like his father, from pain and cruelty, and that was well. 

Footfalls roused him from his bleak thoughts, and he raised his head. It was no preacher, but a caretaker, who nodded in silent acknowledgement, before going about the business of relighting candles that had guttered in the draught.

Jamie breathed slowly in and out, drawing himself up.

Bellamy had insisted to him that he was a good man. He was trying his utmost to be so, yet visions swam in his memory of violence and temper and a good and brave woman recoiling from him in fear. 

He could not excuse himself and say "it was but once". 

If it could be but once, it could be but twice, but thrice, and there would be no end to it all.

It was once. 

It would remain once.

It would never happen again, and if the possibility even arose that it might, then he would close himself away from her, and she would be safe.

He raised his eyes to the modest altar.

He was not a spiritual man, nor a particularly good man, but a little strength from on high, the strength to be a better man would be a blessing. He clasped his hands together, bowed his head, and spoke a brief, direct prayer. It felt trite, to use such concourse with the Almighty for his own petty matrimonial matters, but the state of marriage was considered holy, was it not?

It was not as if he prayed often, and if intercession meant he could prove himself a stronger, better man for his wife...

"Give me the strength to see her will done," he whispered, closing his eyes. "Her will above all."

The Church was still and silent, and he remained sitting until his arse ached and his feet were dull with cold. The caretaker emerged again to snuff the candles. Jamie rose, withdrawing out of the cathedral and into the crisp night air. 

It was unseasonably chilly on account of the rain, and he took refuge in his waiting carriage, returning to his Trongate accommodations.

Supper was awaiting him, and he ate in his chambers, then sat down at his desk, lit by a lantern and took up his pen. For the fourth night in succession, he tried to lay down in words all that he wished to say to the woman who was his wife.

The words failed him, as they had before, and he crumpled the missive, hurling it across the room into the fireplace. What he had to say to her, he wanted to say in person, to see her face and to know if she took his words with acceptance or contempt. To sit and hide in Glasgow, while his wife may or may not condemn the words from his pen would be so easy.

He rested his head in his hands for a long while, then took up his pen again.

It was better to write to his son, to speak of matters at the yard, of his frustrations with the timber merchants, of the blind exhaustion that he was feeling with messages flying thick and fast from his business associates, from the Cranbrook estate, from their lawyers in London.

How he had imagined it would be a good idea to bring down Aston through business, he did not know.

It was true that he had not needed to take over management of the Cranbrook estate, but Belle's father was in no state to do so. It was also true that he did not need to deal with the Aston matters personally, but he was loath to leave Bellamy solely responsible if the matter was brought to the light of day.

His pen shook in his hands.

By God, but he was weary. 

He signed his name and dusted the page, sealing it up for issue to Westfell with the morning. It was hardly informative. It was hardly anything, but he was weary, very weary, and he longed for the day he could return home.

The lamps were dimmed, and he retreated to the bed chamber, a candle his only light.

Only a week past, he had held a lovely young woman in his arms.

Now, he felt an exile in a distant place, out of reach of that brief respite of happiness.

He would go home, he decided. As soon as the ship was back underway and he no longer was required, as soon as he could be the Duke rather than the Yard Master, as soon as he could be the husband rather than the employer, he would go home and pray to God that his wife would still be there.


	17. Chapter 17

It was done.

The yard had finally closed down for the night with all workers granted extra coin for their hard work, and it was done.

Jamie stood at the gates in a daze, awaiting his carriage. He could go home. He could return and find out if he still had a wife in his house. He could find out if it was possible that he might yet be forgiven for his sins.

Had he consciousness and wit enough, he knew he would have departed immediately, but he had been at the yard damn near fourteen hours without a rest, and had barely slept the previous night, and all he could do when he mounted the carriage was demand his Glasgow home.

He slept.

No, that was a kind term. 

It was more like all thought processes were severed and his body simply shut down out of exhaustion. For the first time in some nights, there were no nightmares with power enough to rouse him, and he slept like the very dead.

With the morning, he ate enough to sustain him for some time, bundled additional food into his saddlebags, and took to the road. A gentleman would have called for a carriage and wasted time with dressing respectably, but Jamie had a home to get to. He donned his heavy riding coat against the impending rain and took off to the south east.

The weather did not seem amenable to aiding him, the wind gusting, and the rains falling in earnest by the time he was but an hour from the city’s boundaries. He pulled his hat lower, raised his collar higher, and surged onward. The only respite was to eat and to let the horse water at one of the villages on the way.

All the same, his exhaustion seemed to fall away with the sight of his own lands.

He clattered up the long road that led towards Westfell itself, and though there was a worm of dread twisting in his belly that she might be gone, he could not help but look at his home with relief and some small measure of joy.

He was not expected.

A stable boy rushed about the side of the house at his approach, clearly unprepared, but that was not surprising. Usually, he would sent notice ahead. He had never simply mounted his horse and ridden for home as soon as business was concluded.

He dismounted, stiff-legged, and his body cried out at further exertion.

Jamie gathered his breath and his wits, forcing all thoughts aside but reaching his wife.

He did not expect her to be awaiting him.

He certainly did not expect to find her half-running down the stairs as he strode into the lobby. She was still there. That was the thought that screamed through his senses. She was there and flushed and lovely, and there.

They both stopped dead, for a moment just staring at one another.

Before he could stop himself, he was up the stairs, drawing her into his arm and kissing her urgently, adoringly, and with every ounce of passion he possessed. And she put her arms about him. She did not push him from her or shy back, but she held him fast.

He drew back, scarce daring to believe it.

“Still here?” he breathed, brushing her cheek with his knuckles.

She smiled, tremulously, beautifully. “Where else would I be, husband?”

Jamie shook his head with a dazed laugh. “Anywhere but here, woman,” he said honestly. “I had thought my absence was time enough for you to flee back to your father.” She made a small, astonished sound which he caught in another urgent kiss, as if her very breath gave him life once more. “By God, I am glad that I was wrong.”

Her small fist pummelled his chest. “What manner of coward do you take me for?” she demanded, though her blows were soft enough to be chastisement rather than hurtful. “I am your wife, your Grace, even if your ship take prevalence over me.”

He was sure he was blushing, which was demmed embarrassing, and he covered it hastily by stepping back down two steps and bowing low. 

“Your pardon, madam.”

He dared not meet her eyes until he heard the small, soft laugh. “Foolish husband,” she said, offering a hand, which he covered in kisses, wishing for a moment that he had taken the time to shave off days worth of a beard that rasped on her smooth skin.

He raised his eyes to her face hopefully, fearfully. “Am I forgiven?” he asked, so afraid to ask the question, but so much more afraid not to know the answer.

“Perhaps,” she said, drawing her hand back from his and touching the mess of hair upon his face. “But I do not see a gentleman here.”

Jamie smiled crookedly, rubbing at his chin. He must look like a half-mad Wildman. “Aye, my Lady,” he said. “The last days have been trying at best.” He bowed again, deeply. “If you will excuse me, I will go and make myself presentable, and join you shortly.”

She put her head to one side, then smiled. “The parlour overlooking the gardens?”

He smiled back at her, a great weight lifting from his breast. “As my Lady wishes.”

For once, he took advantage of having a man, not trusting his own hands to be steady enough to shave. He waved the fellow away, though, when he would have brushed and beribboned his hair. His wife knew him well enough. He did not need any fripperies to decorate his person.

He hurried down to the parlour as soon as he was decent and quite caught his breath at the sight of her sitting on the couch. He moved towards her, sitting down as one enchanted, and answered what might while barely able to heed a word she said as she pressed a cup of tea into his hands. 

He did not want tea. 

He did not want anything save her presence.

She frowned sternly at him when he set aside his cup, but she did not retreat from him, not at all, as he leaned closer, and closer still. If she would allow it, if she would only show it was not to be rejected, he knew he would kiss her there, have her there, and the servants be damned.

“You underestimate me, my Lord,” she murmured, her breath warming his skin, their faces so very close. He wondered if she could hear his heart pounding. The beat was rapid, unbearable, and he dared to brush his fingertips over her knee.

“I believe I always shall,” he whispered against her lips. “Did you miss me, Belle?”

Her fingertips were light against his chin, pushing him back just enough to know that while he was not wholly unwelcome, some attentions were not yet to be allowed. “Perhaps,” she murmured.

He leaned back, granting her a decorous amount of space, and reclaimed the teacup, both relieved and heartened that she had not sent him from her in indignation. “Perhaps is enough,” he said, earning a small smile from her. He sipped the tea, then inquired, “How do you find my home?”

Her expression brightened, and for a moment, he was reminded of their first day of married life, when she had been so eager to know of all of his business matters. She told him happily of her encounters with Graham, and the walks in the forests, and made him choke on his tea with the assumption that Graham might be his bastard.

She guess the reason well for his protection of the boy, now a man.

“To protect him from your father’s wrath?”

Jamie felt like his world had narrowed. Belle should never have known of his father, not of anything about the man. “Aye,” was all that he could said, clenching his teeth against the thought of the brute.

Belle was silent for a long moment, then leaned closer, enough to loosen his cravat. It was damp, he noted. The tea. She undid it and drew it aside, and where that might have inflamed passion in him, there was none. It eased the tight knot of loathing and rage somewhat, but his good cheer felt snuffed out.

“Was he so terrible as they all say?” she asked finally, her voice quiet, gentle. “Graham did not speak kindly of him.”

It felt like the very words were grinding across his teeth. “It is not possible to speak kindly of the devil himself,” he forced out. He set down the teacup for fear of dropping it, his hands shaking with emotion. “M’dear, I would that you had not heard any tales of him, for no one should remember him for the brute that he was.”

For a fleeting moment, Belle looked guilty. “I’m afraid I was curious,” she confessed. “Regina said she was very young when she was wed to him.”

Jamie stared at her, drawing himself up unsteadily. His blood was rushing in his ears and he felt light-headed. How much had she spoken to Regina? What had Regina told her? What had she implied? 

“Regina… spoke to you of him?” he asked. His voice seemed to be coming from a thousand miles away, every part of his body rigid and tense. He reached out blindly for her hand, and knew he gripped to hard, but she could not know, not of that bastard, not of the hurts he had done to them all. “You have spoken with her of her marriage?”

Belle drew back from him and when she tugged her hand free, he did not resist it. “I spoke with her of many things,” she said, her brow furrowed with anxiety. “What is it that makes you hate her so?”

Jamie rose unsteadily. He felt quite ill, and his hands trembled by his sides. “And so,” he said half to himself, “she twists on me again.” He swallowed hard on a bitter knot in his throat. “Wait here, Belle. I will be back anon.”

He did not wait to see if she called on him, and if she had, he did not know what he would have done.

He strode from the room, his heart pounding.

She had twisted his mind about him, played with him for her own purposes, and no matter how he tried to put the thought aside, his father and his wife’s blood might well be all over her hands. Now, to turn his wife against him, to ask what was between them, to know how she might have lied to Belle…

He threw open the door of her chamber without knocking. 

Regina rose, alarmed from her dresser. “James!”

“I told you to stay away from her,” he snarled, stalking towards her.

She retreated several steps. “What are you talking about?”

“My wife,” he said, his hands twitching by his sides. Why had he let her stay? Why had he not made it known of her crimes and driven her away? Bay would have understood! Bay would have! None of this would ever have happened. “You thought because I was absent that you could pour your poison in her ear!”

Regina stared at him with contempt and loathing. “Always you fling such accusations at me!” she exclaimed. “What cause have you? What right? I have done nothing to your little wife!”

“Oh, don’t play the innocent with me,” Jamie stalked closer to her and she shied away, retreating from him circling as he tried to catch her to one side, then the other. “I know how you twist people, Regina. I remember.” He thrust a finger at her savagely. “You intend to turn her against me!”

“I did nothing of the sort!” Regina exclaimed in fury, her beautiful features made ugly with anger. 

Jamie’s hands clenched into savage fists. “I told you,” he snarled, “to leave her be!”

She leaned forward, baring her teeth. “Yes, I know,” she hissed, eyes ablaze, “but can I help it if your little bride is lonely, after you abandon your marriage bed?” The disgust in her expression was echoed in her words as she spat, “She’s but a child, James, and you left her alone in this house.” Her face was so close he could feel her ragged breaths. “With me.”

He caught her arm, so close to shaking her in rage. “If you harmed one hair on her head…”

“You keep deceiving yourself, James!” she snapped, jerking free. “Believe what you wish of me, but this is nothing more than your own guilt, letting you pretend you’re the innocent party.”

Jamie felt as if she had struck him. He had guilt, he knew that: of betraying his marriage bed with his stepmother, of forgetting how much he had missed Eliza, of the shame of it all. “I know what you’re capable of, Regina,” he snarled out, remembering a forest, a corpse, and then, again, another time, another place, another body in her charge. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”

She drew herself up, all ice and pallor. “I know you have not,” she whispered, “Just as I never will.” She pressed so close to him, almost as if they were still lovers, sharing a secret, poisonous embrace. “And do not imagine for a moment that I have forgotten what we shared.”

Jamie felt his gorge rising and pushed her back from him, his hands shivering. “What we shared was a lie.”

She stared at him, cool and steady, and the fury was gone, replaced with icy calm. “I never lied,” she said, fixing him with her gaze. “Not about what we shared. Not of anything.”

He wanted to believe her. By God, if she was innocent, if she denied it all, then he could let it be, but he had accused and she had refused to speak in her own defence. He grasped her, shaking her, his voice breaking as he pleaded, “Then why will you not deny what you did? Why not speak truly?”

Her features crumpled, once more the young girl he had known, lost and frightened, and tears broke from her eyes, dashing down her cheeks. “Because,” she whispered in a fragile whisper, “you felt you had to ask me.” She laughed or sobbed or perhaps both. “That spoke enough for you.”

Jamie flinched, recoiling back. He had asked. He had. That night, in his room, when the horrific thought first came upon him. He had looked at her, and he had asked, and she had stared at him as if he had stuck a knife in her throat.

He could hardly look at her. He could hardly think. His head was spinning.

“Enough.”

Belle!

Both of them turned sharply, staring, startled.

How long had she been there? Jamie did not know. He did not know what she had seen or what she had heard.

She was pale and she looked shaken as she stepped into the room, but there was a fire in her blue eyes, fierce and determined. She held out her hand towards him, meeting his eyes, and she gently said, “Jamie.” He trembled and felt the tears on his face, tears he had not known were falling. She crooked her fingers, and her voice was steady and calm. “Come with me.”

“Belle…” He wanted to refuse, to protest, to hide this ugliness from her, all of it, all of the worst of this house, of the past.

“Jamie,” she repeated, her voice calm as if trying to pacify a frightened animal. Perhaps she was. He felt ready to break away, shatter all the things about him. “Come with me.”

He should not be around her, not while in such a temper, not while he wanted to strike and hurt and maim. He should not be around anyone. Not at all. But she was gazing at him, bold and brave and true, and her hand was for him. 

He darted his tongue along his lower lip, then placed his hand in her hand. It was small and dry and warm, compared to his own. She held him fast, held him tight, and that gave him the strength to gather the shattered pieces of his mind together.

He felt he could scarce breathe, as she led him on, and he wanted to shy back, protest, as she led him to his chamber, to the room where he had hurt her. He hesitated in the doorway, but she entered bravely, and he could not, would not, leave her again.

She released him to shut the doors behind them.

Jamie stood uncertainly in the middle of the floor. All his anger seemed spent. He felt it draining away, leaving only bitter grief and an ache behind. “Belle…”

She gently caught his arm. “Sit down, Jamie,” she murmured, guiding him to the bed. “I want the truth of this.” She lifted his face, made him meet her eyes. “I cannot stay here, if I am to be lied to and have secrets hidden in front of my eyes.”

He wanted to weep, shaking his head. She was too good, too decent, too kind to be corrupted by the past sins of the house. “Belle, you should not know.”

She stared at him and took a deep, shivering breath. “Damn you, James Goldacre,” she whispered, her voice fierce. “I have married you. I am your wife. For better for worse.” Her voice rose in volume, clear and sharp and pure. “In all things, I am your wife. Do not lie to me. Not now, nor again.”

It was not a lie to hide hurts that ran deep, wounds that left such scars. “Belle, please…”

Her small hands were gentle on his face and he could not look away. “Jamie,” she whispered so gently, so kindly, he knew he did not, could not ever deserve her. “The truth. Why do you hate her so? What terrible crime did she commit that you believe I should now know? What are you protecting me from?”

He was weeping. He was helpless. He could not protect her, just as he had not been able to protect Eliza. “Belle, please,” he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

“Husband.” He flinched, trembled, at her words. “My husband. My love.” Love. Love. She had never said so before. By God, she would loathe him. She would be disgusted. “Please.” He tried to turn from her, to hide his face, to avoid her gaze, but her small hands were strong and she held him fast. “Please, Jamie,” she whispered, her voice shaking with emotion. “Please. I must know.”

His cheeks were hot and wet and he could scarcely see her for the film of tears. “I think,” he whispered, his voice so hoarse and ragged that he sounded like a stranger, “that she murdered my wife.”


	18. Chapter 18

And so, the truth was laid bare in all its ugly glory.

His greatest fear and suspicion.

To her credit, Belle did not draw back from him or recoil in horror. She held his face between her small hands and she asked, "Do you really? Do you really believe she could?" and he could not answer her.

None had ever asked before.

None had ever known.

He looked up at her helplessly, his brave wife who asked what he dared not ask himself. "I don't know," he confessed.

She straightened up, releasing him, but returned a moment later, dragging one of the chairs from the fireplace to sit before him. She claimed his hands, which he had not realised were trembling, and held them fast.

"If you believe that," she said with utter confidence, "truly believed it, I do not think you would leave Bellamy or I in this house with her."

And there was the truth.

As dangerous as he had been to her, when he departed, he knew she would be safe in his house. For all that he had seen, for all that he had convinced himself of over the years since Eliza's passing, in all the guilt and grief and confusion...

"You hardly know her, Belle," he whispered. "I know what she is capable of."

His wife's hands were warm about his. "And she is capable of murdering her dearest friend?" she prompted with such gentleness. "The mother of the son who is not hers?" He looked blindly at their linked hands. "Jamie, do you really believe so?"

He remembered his father. He remembered the day in the forest when their world turned on a knife-edge. He remembered how she clung to him, sobbed, broken and terrified by the knowledge of what had come to pass, and the calm that followed, that strange, hollow calm, when she stood at the funeral, grave and lovely and a true Duchess.

It was that moment that came to mind, when she offered herself to wife.

If she could adopt such a clever mask then, how could she not don others, more subtle, more seductive? But then, how could he be sure that he was wrong?

He raised his eyes to Belle's face. "I wish to God I did not," he whispered.

Belle's brow was furrowed, and she touched his cheek with a tenderness that made his eyes burn. "Tell me," she asked quietly. "Tell me what happened." Jamie near recoiled at the thought. "If I am to understand you, her, all that has come to pass in this house, I must know what happened."

The very thought made his gorge rise. Belle was a lovely, good, honest woman. She did not deserve to hear of the poison and corruption that was rooted in this damned household. He tried to pull back, but her grip upon his hand was like a vice, and there was iron in her eyes.

"Jamie," she said, her voice a silk-sheathed blade. "Do not tell me the end of the tale and leave it at that."

"Belle," he protested, shaking his head. It would ruin her to know what she had married into, to know what he had done, to know how weak her husband was, and how foolish.

Her expression brooked no refusal, calm and grave. "You would have me judge her for a crime that I cannot believe she would commit," she said evenly. "Give me the tale and let me be the judge."

It felt as if a hand was closed about his heart and squeezing mercilessly, but he knew she would not allow him to hold his silence any longer. It was the cause of all the distemper between them. It was the cause of his offence to her. It was the root of all the ills that festered deep within Westfell. 

He spoke, then, of the young woman Regina had been, the girl who had been bound to his father. He could remember her well, pushed to the altar by her mother, pale and trembling. She had known the Duke's reputation for lechery and his proclivities. None who lived in the near reaches could not.

What she had not anticipated was his needless cruelty. He was not so at first, but when a child did not take, he became merciless. Jamie could recall the first time his father ventured away on business, leaving his young wife alone. She had run to the Dower house, bleeding, limping and fearful, and taken refuge with them until the Duke returned. 

Matters only became worse, and the fateful day was burned into his memory when a stableboy rushed to the Dower house. The Duke and Duchess had gone riding together, something that never happened. Jamie remembered the sick fear that had burned through him and Eliza did not even needed to say a word.

He could not look at Belle as he spoke.

"She had no value to him," he said numbly. "I believe he intended to be rid of her. Better an accident than a disgrace. As far as I can see, his intentions turned on him. When I found them, her mare was dead, thrown down a gully. I have no doubt she would have followed had his own horse not thrown him."

Belle's voice trembled. "I can hardly believe that," she said. "Murdering his own wife?"

She had never known the man, he thought blankly. She never saw what he was capable of. In another time, another place, he might have snapped at her for her innocent ignorance, but he was tired of it all. 

"Belle," he said wearily, watching his thumbs move in slow circles on the back of her hands, "the man damned near beat me to death when I dare to return after Eliza and I eloped." The thought of the man no longer drove the fear of God into him, but left him feeling curiously numb, hollow even. "He even struck Eliza when she dared to defend me. He had no affection for Regina. He could play at being a gentleman, but when something displeased or disappointed him, his temper was terrible." Jamie forced his eyes from their hands to Belle's face, unsurprised by the horror etched on her features. "I have no doubt that he would have simply strangled her and left her body to the dogs, if he thought he could have escaped unpunished."

Her hands were shaking in his.

She knew what he was born of now, and she feared it, and that grieved him more than anything that came before. All she sought was peace and protection, and he had lured her into a monster's den.

Brave as ever, she whispered, "But that does not mean she had a hand in his end."

He shook his head. "She had her skirts crushed over his face, held by every little bit of her," he said, wishing once more that he had been able to ascertain then the true cause. "I do not know if the fall was his end or if she finished what the fall had begun, but it was her intent. She was all bloodied and she hardly knew me when I pulled her back." He loosed his hold on Belle's hands, giving her ample opportunity to pull away. His voice was unsteady. "You are the first to know, aside from Eliza." 

She looked startled. "Bay..."

James closed his eyes. It had been unthinkable to tell him then, when he doted on Regina like an aunt, and then when she was all but mother to him...

"He has no knowledge of any of it," he said finally. "Neither she nor I can be sure of what killed the bastard that day, and I did not think any should know. She had suffered more than any child needed to. I thought her freedom from his cruelty would be enough."

She was no longer holding his hands so closely. Her fingers were loose, tremulous, and damp with a chill sweat. He could not blame her for that, to know she had wed into a house of madness and murder.

She was silent for a long while, then asked quietly, "And that is the reason you believe she might have..." 

Jamie wanted to weep. this brave little wife, so good, so gentle, could not even put into words the matters that had haunted his dreams for so many years. He turned her hands over in his, watching her fingers curling towards her palms.

"I do not want to think it, but Eliza..." He looked up at her, feeling so lost. "After Bay was born, she was ill for months on end. Regina became more a mother to Bay when Eliza was at her worst. She doted upon him, and sometimes, he even called her mama. She loved him too, desperately so, as one who has not been able to conceive will."

Belle shook her head in incomprehension. "If Eliza was ill, then surely..."

He snapped out, unable to bear it. "She was recovering." His voice caught in his throat, and he could not bear to look her in the eyes. To think on Eliza as she had been and the shell she had become, faded and drawn, but sometimes sparking with such vibrancy."She was able to rise, walk abroad, even to try for a second child. Regina was with her at all times." 

It took him a moment to gather himself, the emotion snaring what little breath he had claimed.

"I had taken Bay riding," he finally said, his thumbs resting lightly against her palms. "We returned and Regina was waiting, quite hysterical. She said that Eliza had taken a fit, and that she had tried to help, but there was naught to be done." He took a breath. "I believed it to be true."

Belle asked quietly, "What changed?"

Jamie could not immediately respond. He drew his thumbs in circles on the centre of each palm. It was a disgrace to not only him, but to Regina as well, and in halting tones, he made his confession: out of loneliness, loss, solitude, he and Regina had lain together some half dozen times over three years. His voice sounded like a stranger's in his ears.

"You did not think then, that she had done anything wrong?" 

Jamie shook his head at the question. 

"When did you think on it?"

He felt like he was sullying her, touching her with the same hands that had touched Regina, and drew back, rising, away from her to tell her the worst of it. "

It was shortly after Bay went to school for the first time," he said, walking along the edge of the bed. "What... comfort we took from one another was at the house on the edge of the estate. Away from prying eyes. But she was grieved at Bay's absence." He looked over his shoulder at the bed, where he had taken Regina and so very nearly violated Belle, then away, acid burning the back of his throat. "It became something more, when we came to this room."

Belle was sitting rigid in the chair by the bed, pale, her eyes closed. "Your marital bed," she whispered in understanding.

He wrapped his arms tight about himself, as the words spilled free, shameful, awful words of that night, when Regina had offered herself as his wife, in his wife's bed, wearing his wife's nightgown, using his wife's brush, dressing herself to all intents and purposes to be Eliza, to be a Duchess as she never had been for his father, to be mother to his son, to be his companion and lover, and all the things she never had, and would never have had, had Eliza lived. 

"Jamie," Belle breathed. He could not tell what she thought, not even a little. Perhaps disgust, perhaps disbelief. He did not know.

He looked at her, his whole body taut with renewed grief. "What am I to think?" he asked, his voice breaking unbearably. "My wife was not dying, and then, the woman who was mother to her son is with her, and she is dead?" His face was wet, and his words barely comprehensible. "The woman who I know if capable of killing? What was I to think when suddenly, she would be my wife and mother's son?"

The stillness of the room felt like it swallowed every word.

"She loved Eliza," Belle said so very softly. "You know she did."

He pressed his eyes shut, nodded. "I know," he whispered. "She loved Eliza far more than I ever could have done."

“And yet, you still believe she would?”

Jamie shivered. “Eliza was not dying, Belle,” he whispered, remembering her smile, so much brighter than it had been for months, and yet, still a brief shadow of what came before. She was ill, even then. He always knew she was, but she was stalwart and strong Eliza. Women like that didn’t simply die. “She had been ill, but she was not dying.”

He flinched when soft arms wrapped around him from behind and Belle pressed her cheek between his shoulders. “Jamie,” she said softly, folding her hands over his heart. “Would you place me in danger?”

He shook his head tersely. “Never.”

“And yet,” her voice was quiet, reasonable, gentle, “you left me here with her, and you did not consider it a true danger.” He shivered at her words and she held him fast. “You do not truly believe that she could do such a thing.”

“She was with her,” he whispered hoarsely, remembering the grief and alarm in Regina’s face when she had rushed out to find him. “She was with Eliza, when she died.” The words were stumbling on his tongue. “She was well. She was so much better than she had been in months.” he brought his hands up to cover hers, but how could she stand to touch him? Knowing what he had done, knowing that it was all his fault? He jerked his hands back. No. She deserved far better. “What other reason could there be for her to die?” His words were choked, pained. “Why did Regina never deny it?” He was quaking in her arms. “If she did not do it, why not deny it?”

Her arms tightened about him, as if to hold him steady, the good, brave, foolish woman. 

“Because you felt you had to ask her,” she said gently, telling him what he had known for so long, but had not wanted to believe. “Jamie, the woman loves your family as if you were her own, and you accused her of slaying her dearest friend. She thought herself one of the family, and to have you think such a thing of her…”

It was so much easier to lay the blame at her door, than to believe anything good could come of them. Nothing good ever came of anything he did, and now, he had damaged and ruined another woman, a woman who had done naught but show him kindness. First Eliza, then Regina, and now…

“I know.” His voice shattered like glass. “By God, I know.” He was unmanned and weeping, but he could not quash the grief. “I want to believe her guilty, want to believe that she was doing it to her own advantage, all of it.”

Belle’s brow pressed between his shoulders. “And yet,” she whispered, “you cannot.”

“Why can she not deny it?” he pleaded. “To hear it, to hear her say she did not do anything, it is all that I would need to hear.”

For his own sake as well as hers.

“And then what?” Belle loosed her arms to circle about in front of him, laying her hands on his chest. “She would live the rest of her life knowing that you could not simply believe in her innocence.” She shook her head. “Sure, you and she do not deserve that.”

He shook his head, his cheeks hot and wet. “Belle,” he whispered imploring, “Belle, Eliza could not simply die. It could not be so simple.” He could barely understand a word he was saying, his throat gummed up with grief. “There had to be some rhyme, some reason to it all. If she had not died, I would not have…” His breath quivered across his lips. Not have what? Defiled his father’s widow? Besmirched the memory of the woman who had loved him well enough? Believed himself worthy of affection a second time? “Regina must have,” he whispered, his voice utterly broken. “For otherwise, why would she want me?” He was shaking, every inch of him, and his little wife reached up fearlessly to touch his cheek. “None ever would have me.”

She was staring at him, his lovely Belle, the woman he had hurt without ever intending to.

“Jamie Goldacre,” she said in a strange, dazed voice, “are you a complete damned fool?”

He could not think to speak, shaking his head, pressing his cheek to her palm. “So I am told,” he whispered.

She brushed her hand against his cheek so tenderly, as if none of what he had done mattered, as if he had not harmed her, stood by and watched his family fall apart, ruined so many women worthy of so much better.

“Jamie,” she said gently, but with a firmness that brooked no refusal. “Look at me.”

He looked to her warily, uncertain, lost. None had known him, not as she did now, and none could use that knowledge as well as she could. She was stronger by far than he. He had loved her for it the moment he saw her blue eyes flashing fire at him and saw her rise against him. He had never met a woman such as she - mild and gentle, yet a tigress beneath. He had given all he had to her, in meagre reparation for the poor meat that was her husband, in hopes it would be enough.

She smiled, and he was utterly lost.

“I will have you, Jamie Goldacre,” she said softly.

He stared at her blankly. “Belle,” he said, shakily. “You need not…”

Her small hands framed his face, and she nodded calmly. “I am your wife,” she said, her thumbs grazing his cheeks. “And I am small and sharp and poor.” She held his gaze, never wavering, never looking away, never lying. “You have chosen me, despite these things. And now, I will have you.” She rose upon her toes and kissed his lips softly. “And I will love you, my husband, if you will let me.”

His hands sought her waist blindly and he murmured her name like a prayer, as she knew and chose and still stepped into his embrace.


	19. Chapter 19

Jamie felt like his world had been made anew, and in a fashion he hardly recognised at all.

Despite knowing all, despite hearing every bit of his tale, Belle took his face between her small hands and smiled at him and told him that she would have him. In spite of his distemper and his ill-behaviour, and so many other crimes in which he had been complicit, she kissed him and she took him by the hand and led him to bed.

He lavished his affections on her, hardly daring to believe that it was true, and only as they lay together afterwards, half-dressed, sated, and tangled in one another's limbs, could he truly see that she was in earnest, his bold little wife. 

“Why?” she asked in a whisper that scarce broke the silence between them, her body spilled over his, a comforting mantle.

“Why?” he echoed, knowing what she asked, as much as he feared the question. His fingers curled into her hair, in hopes of diverting her.

She lifted her head from his arm to look at him. “The first night, when we came to this room,” she murmured. “What possessed you that night?”

Jamie looked at her, stricken, knowing how much it must have borne down upon her. “Her presence,” he confessed, moving his hand to caress her cheek. “I saw her, and all the hate I felt for her crime, all the hate for myself for being with her, had she done as I believe, all the regrets and recriminations…” He shook his head, remembering the whirl of black emotion. It had no place here, not anymore. His fingers trembled on her cheek. “You were none of that. Pure and good and bright.” His smile shivered sadly upon his lips, knowing it was no excuse for all that he had done, but she deserved the truth at least. “I wanted to lose myself in you, drive away the dark thoughts that were smothering me.”

Her eyes were bright with compassion as she touched his cheek. “Oh, Jamie,” she murmured.

Jamie’s lips twitched helplessly. It was his preferred monicker of course, but she had been so shy about using James, he had no notion how to approach her about using Jamie instead. “Am I Jamie, now?” he asked. 

She leaned down over him and kissed his chin playfully. “I think it suits you,” she said. “It is not so formidable as James.” Another kiss followed, this one on his lips, but before he could catch it, she drew back and said, “I think I could better love a Jamie.”

Jamie’s heart swelled with fondness for her. “Then Jamie I shall be,” he promised, raising himself to claim a kiss. 

They talked some little while more, of kith and kin, and though he tried to persuade her, she would not remain abed with him. All the same, with the promise of her company in the evening, and his promise of speaking with Regina, they parted company.

She offered him her courage with a kiss, fanning the weak spark of his own, and on her account and request, he dressed and made his way towards the Dowager Duchess's chambers. There were matters to be spoken of. Matters that should have been spoken of much sooner.

Jamie stood before the doors.

The coward in him hoped that Regina would be elsewhere. Riding perhaps, or even abroad in the grounds. His stomach was in knots and he drew himself straight, bringing up a knuckle to rap sharply upon the door.

It was a moment before Regina opened the door, and when she saw him, her expression tensed, grim and pale.

"Have you come to rail at me once more?" she asked, her voice brittle.

Jamie clenched and unclenched his hands. These matters should have been spoken of. The past should have remained the past and nothing more. Belle was right, and he had been so lost in his own fears that it had become easier to believe that Regina was using him for her own purposes, when all she sought was the security of a family. 

"I have come to offer an olive branch," he said quietly.

She stared at him in disbelief. "An olive branch?"

He nodded, folding and unfolding his hands together before him. "I have... spoken out of turn," he said awkwardly. "I... believed you sought to benefit from the deaths of my father and Eliza to your own gain. I was... mistaken."

Regina opened the door a little wider. Her brow was creased with puzzlement. "What game is this you are playing?" she demanded in a voice edged with hostility. "Do you mean to make me comfortable, then drag my world from beneath my feet again?"

Jamie's fingers curled against his palms, the nails biting into his palm. "No," he said. "I am in earnest." His throat felt tight. "Might I come in?"

She stared at him doubtfully, but nodded, opening the door enough to allow him to enter.

Jamie stepped into her chambers, forcing himself to remain steadfast and upright, though years of ill-habit wished to turn on her. There were chairs by the fire, and at her gesture, he sat down stiffly in one of them, toying with the ring about his finger.

Regina sat down opposite him, watching him like a wary animal, as if expecting to be struck. "You say you were mistaken," she said abruptly. "What has brought about such a change of heart?"

He forced himself to meet her eyes. "Whom do you think?" he said quietly.

Regina's breath caught. "Isabelle? She spoke for me?"

"For both of us," he said finally. "She sees the best in people, even those who have caused her pain and distress." He took a slow breath. "I told her the truth of the matter as I have seen it all."

"You called me murderer," she replied tersely.

"You were stepping into Eliza's shoes," he said quietly. "All seemed to be falling into place for you with her death. How was I to think otherwise, when you stepped first into her bed, then into her gowns and then her position?"

Regina stared at him. "That is how you saw it?"

Jamie nodded rigidly. "I thought you loved her well, but why would you choose to surplant her so."

"Surplant her?" Regina laughed unsteadily. "Lud, Jamie, I clung to her memory so hard for the fear I would lose all that remained of her. I filled her place for it was the best way I could remember her: the way she moved, the way she laughed, the way she attired herself! Would it be better that she was allowed to fade to nothing? A ghost closed away in the Dower house?"

Jamie sank back in the chair. "You would have become her," he said, low.

"Never!" Regina exclaimed, shaking her head. "How could I compare with Eliza, you foolish man?" She rose from the chair, pacing back and forth before the grate. "Do you know she was the first woman of her station I had ever encountered? And yet she treated me with naught but grace and kindness, when I had reduced her circumstances by my very presence." She wheeled around upon. "I was a Duchess and she was all but Royal-born, but now the wife of a man called bastard by his own father. Yet, she never begrudged me!"

Jamie flinched at her words, remembering that first terrible blazing row that his wife and Regina had both witnessed, when his father's new wife was presented, blushing and innocent.

"She was a good woman," he said quietly. 

"She was the best woman I have known," Regina said finally, her back to him. She breathed out a quivering sigh. "James, I never wanted to take her place. I never could take her place." She lowered her head. "I was not your blood nor your kin. What cause did I have to remain with her gone?" She turned slightly, looking back at him. "Would you have let me stay, James? If we had not..."

He stared at her in dull astonishment. "You thought I would drive you hence?"

"I thought I would remind you of your father," she whispered, "and of the times spent before his end." She shook her head. "I would not have wished that, were I you."

Jamie rose from the chair, his belly roiling with discomfort. It was true that she had reminded him of his father, but more than that, she had reminded him of the brief times of happiness spent with his wife. He walked to the window, looking out. It felt safer to take a moment to gather his thoughts, than speak and shatter this delicate truce.

"You are not me," he said after a moment. "You saw yourself as a scar left by him. I saw you as another that he had harmed as greatly as I. That was why I did not dismiss you after his end." He braced his hand on the window ledge. "I had hoped... my intent was that your life would be a peaceful one after his passing."

He heard the sound of her skirts shifting, and caught her reflection in the glass as she sat down. "A pity, then," she said quietly, "that we made it something far worse."

He turned on the spot and sat in the window ledge, folding his arms upon his chest. "Aye," he said.

Regina toyed with her skirt. "I know I used you shamelessly," she murmured.

"Ha!" He leaned back against the glass, the surface cool through his shirt and waistcoat. "We were both of us guilty on that account." He closed his eyes. "I had no love for you, then, you know. I only wished to have some manner of companionship to fill the void she had left."

"I know," she replied just as quietly. "Did you love her?"

Jamie opened his eyes, looking at her. "She was my dearest friend," he said. 

"But you did not hold her in such high affection as your new lady wife," Regina said quietly. "I have seen the way you look at her, James. You love this one."

He nodded silently.

Regina smoothed her skirt with one hand. "I miss Eliza," she said quietly. "Still. Even now." She laughed unsteadily. "I thought this new little bit of a girl was a final insult to her memory. She seemed a meek and broken little goose. Much as I had been."

Jamie's lips twitched crookedly. "Lud, woman, this little goose has a mighty peck."

Regina nodded with a wan smile. "So I observed," she said. "I heard she beat a man with a poker when he deigned to strike her."

"She has a tongue she wields as fiercely as her poker," he murmured. "Eliza was meek as a lamb by comparison." He met Regina's eyes. "She took me by the lobe and bade me listen to what I had been stoppering my ears to."

"And you listened?" Regina said. "Heaven preserve us."

Jamie snorted. "You will find my lady wife can be most... persuasive."

"And disobedient to your will," Regina observed. "You told her to stay away from me, did you not?"

He nodded. "Indeed," he murmured. "Impertinent wench insists she will do as she pleases. Most would blame her French blood, but I am damned sure it is purely her." He crossed his feet at the ankles. "And thus, I am here, for she has made me listen."

Regina was quiet for a long while, looking down at her hands resting in her lap. "May I stay?" she finally asked in a small voice. "This is my home, James. You and Bay, you are my family." Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Please, may I stay?"

Jamie felt shaken. 

For close to twenty years, he had believed she wanted nothing more than position and rank, and yet, even now, she only wanted the assurance that he would not turn her out on the street, away from Westfell, away from Bay, even away from him.

"Where the devil would you, if I cast you out?" he demanded gruffly. "No, no. You cannot be gone. Bellamy would have my guts for garters."

Regina stared at him, dazed, wide-eyed, and for a moment, he saw the frightened child who had appeared on his doorstep but days after her marriage to his father. Her trembling hands rose and covered her face, and she seemed to slump in the chair, weeping.

Jamie shifted awkwardly at the window.

If there was one thing that he knew naught about dealing with, it was a weeping woman.

He rose and approached after a few moments and held out a kerchief to her. "Fie, woman," he said, addressing the fireplace uncomfortably. "One would think I had told you to pack your bags and be on your way on the morrow."

She took the kerchief, and when she spoke, her voice was heavy with tears. "That is what I have expected every day since that night," she said. "You looked at me with such loathing, James."

He forced himself to look to her. "Aye," he agreed quietly, "but I was mistaken." He hesitated, uncertain. "Would you forgive me?"

She nodded wordlessly, motioning for him to reclaim the second seat. "Lud," she whispered, dabbing at her eyes with the kerchief. "It feels like an eternity since we have spoken to one another with a civil tongue."

Jamie settled in the seat. "It has at that," he said quietly. One side of his mouth quirked up. "Bellamy will be beside himself."

And it was as simple as that.

Once more, they were talking as they once had, of Bellamy's well-being, of his stubborness, of his amusement with Belle. Regina was not Eliza, and as they both now knew, she never wanted or would be the woman who had brought them together, but there was enough of that shared friendship lingering to rekindle what long-suffocated kinship there had been between them. 

It was only when the bell rang for supper that they realised just how very long they had been talking.

"They will think we have killed one another," Jamie said ruefully, getting to his feet. He offered Regina his arm hesitantly. "Would you accompany me?"

She looked at his arm, then at his face. "Would I be welcome?"

He snorted. "Damn you, woman," he said indignantly. "I'm offering an arm. Ain't that enough for you?"

Her lips twitched. "Still the same, aren't you, James?" she said, rising and taking his arm. 

"Most certainly," he said with a huff. "A man cannot change all of himself, after all."

“No,” Regina agreed with a small smile. “He can still be a pig-headed fool sometimes.”

Jamie snorted ruefully, but he knew he had no place at all to disagree. “Come along,” he said, tugging on her arm to lead her from the room. “We must go and cause Bellamy to have a conniption.”

Regina hesitated. “Do you think he will be happy?”

Jamie looked at her, and allowed the briefest of smiles to cross his lips. “I think the demmed brat will be ecstatic.”


	20. Chapter 20

She loved him.

They had been tangled up in one another, halfway out of the clothes as they made love, and she had sobbed out his name, and she had confessed her love, and for the first time in so many years, he could believe that it was possible.

In the peace of their bedchamber, she had disrobed him, and he her, and they lay together, talking softly, and the tension built up over decades, no, over his whole life, seemed to be drawn away one by one. 

He did not remember falling asleep, only that he had been resting his head upon her bosom, and she was stroking his hair. He woke to neither her bosom nor her touch upon his brow. Indeed, it was growing bright, with daylight cutting through a chink in the curtains. 

Jamie’s eyes opened a crack and he peered around the room.

Belle was at the desk, pen in hand, though he caught a glimpse of her eyes upon his reflection. He waited until she looked to the page, then sat up, rising from the bed. The air was cool, bracing, on his skin, but out of propriety, he drew on a robe. As lovely as it was to see Belle blush, it was lovelier still to see her undress him.

He approached on bare feet, and surveyed her. Her hair was loose, a chestnut cascade down her back, and what manner of man would he be to resist such a welcome invitation? He buried his fingers in the dark mass, his fingertips grazing the nape of her neck, earning a delightful shiver of response.

It was probably considered demmed impolite, but he bent and pressed his mouth to her throat, trailing kisses there. She whimpered over a greeting, and he chuckled, nuzzling his way to her ear. 

“Wife,” he murmured, slipping his arms around her, feeling her warmth through her fine robe. He knew she was still shy, so he splayed his hands on her belly, rather than elsewhere, until he could gauge her acceptance so early. “You left me alone in bed, m’dear.” His lips were brushing her earlobe, and she tilted her head in invitation, baring her lovely throat. “I dislike that.”

He could see her pen quiver in her hand. “You were sleeping,” she said with impressive hauteur. “I was not.”

She looked perfect, even clad in a loose robe, her hair in disarray, a Duchess with her head high and her pride intact. “Hmm,” he mused, watching her reflection as he teased her ear with his tongue, and moved his hand in ever descending circles.

“Jamie…” She moaned. The Duchess was gone and his wife remained, her head falling back against his shoulder, and her throat was so bare, so inviting, so pristine and lovely, that he could not help marking it. It diverted her enough, it seemed, to let his fingers delve beneath her robes, and only then did she move, catching his mischievous hand.

“Jamie,” she said again, soft, turning to look up at him, and how could he do aught but kiss her nibbled lips? His hands roamed and her own abandoned her pen, and she allowed him some little pleasure, but all too soon, she halted him.

He almost whined in protest.

“Not now,” she murmured. Her voice was thickened with passion, edged with drowsiness, and it sent a thrill the length of his spine. “I fear is we begin, we might never cease.”

He nuzzled at her nose, at her lips, drinking her in, breathing her breath. “You speak as if this is a terrible thing, m’dear,” he protested, though he knew well that her will was far stronger than his own. “I see naught wrong in it.” He met her eyes, an impish smile upon his lips. “Indeed, I consider it a dem good way to spend time.”

She rebuffed him, as he knew she would, but not without the promise of further embraces later. After all, she had letters to write, and her little belly was growling in demand of sustenance, and he was not a man willing to starve his wife to slake his own desires. It might have been tempting, it was true, with her robe gaping and her lips swollen and her eyes bright, but he would not have her hungry or cold or exhausted or unhappy, not ever, as long as he could prevent it.

They were reunited over breakfast, and even when the food was spent, it seemed they had more than enough to talk of. He had had little opportunity to give her the details of the estate itself since their return from London, and she had a hundred and one questions.

“But if you have so much land,” she said. “why do you also have the shipyards?”

Jamie smiled crookedly. After all she had heard of his father, no doubt she tried to still think well of him, that he could not have been so terrible. 

“I was not always the heir,” he explained. “My father had a very direct train of thought when it came to inheritance.” He frowned pensively, turning his half-drunk tea in its cup. “My brother, John, would have received everything down to the last farm.” He raised his eyes to her. “I would have been lucky to receive an allowance until I reached my majority. Father’s will was only changed after John passed away, only weeks after my marriage.”

Belle’s expression was thoughtful. “Did you care for your brother?” she asked, and he wondered if it was because she was an only child herself, and had not had such matters affect her. 

Jamie frowned, thinking on him. “I can hardly recall him,” he admitted. “I know he was a larger lad, much more like father than I.” He could not help but smiling wanly, recalling the many furious fights between himself and his father over the matter and how much clearer it made things now. “I used to wonder why I was called the little bastard.”

Belle exclaimed in horror, one hand flying to her mouth.

Jamie waved a hand. “Oh, lud, woman!” he exclaimed, shifting awkwardly on his seat. “No pity.” Pity was the last thing he needed or desire. He straightened up and tapped his finger on the table. “For all I cared for my father, I might have been the farmhand’s get.” He picked up his teacup again. “I left the house for school when I was nine, was with the army by thirteen and did not set foot here again, until after John died.”

His wife looked stricken. “That sounds a wretched state,” she said quietly.

He lowered his eyes for but a moment. It had been easier not to think of such matters for a long time, but as with Regina, lancing such a poisonous knot of grievances felt far better. His father was long gone, as was his brother. He had no need to let the memories of them trouble him any longer.

“I am Duke,” he said finally, meeting her eyes. “My son is the heir. The estates are all mine, and even if they were not, I have my trade to turn to.” He gazed at her, the first person who had truly cared to ask. “And now, I have a loving wife to see that I do not work myself to the bone.”

Her expression brightened, and she reached over to clasp his hand. “You can be sure of that,” she said, and there was a spark of mischief in her eyes. “I would not wish my husband to exhaust himself.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice dropping in pitch, and judging by the flush that coloured her features, her thoughts were turning rapidly in the same direction of his. He lifted her hand, hiding his smile in a kiss to her knuckles. “Still blushing, dearie?”

Her eyes met his, and he could see her cheek dimple. “I cannot help that you make it so.”

His thumb drew across her fingers gently, and he drank her in, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed and lovely. “I would advise,” he murmured, forcing himself not to draw her closer, to embrace her, “that you flee now, my Lady, else I will forget all about my promise to let you be.” He lifted her hand. “Flee until evening, and I shall find you then.” He brushed his lips to her knuckles, and he both promised and forewarned, “May God help you if I find you sooner.”

She laughed, and the very sound sent warmth rushing through him. She was happy. She loved him and she was truly happy, and he could not imagine any way in which she could make him happier still. 

“I will see you this evening, your Grace,” she promised, her eyes shining as she drew her fingers from his grasp. She walked towards the door gracefully, without looking back, but he watched her nonetheless, drinking in every step she made, the curve of her shoulder, the tumble of her hair. 

Only when the door was closed did he slump back in his chair.

He was grinning like a demmed idiot, and that would render him of no use to man nor beast, unless he kept himself from woolgathering. A man with a trade and land to manage should not turn to a milksop when his wife smiled at him, no matter how lovely she was.

He shoved his chair back, rising. 

There were other matters to tend to, and he made his way to his study, poring over the documentation and books that had been left untended in his absence. It was fortunate that most of the farms had capable men managing them, so he had little concern there, but it did not mean he should not keep an eye on proceedings.

He was making headway when there was a knock.

McEwan entered with a stack of letters and papers, which seemed uncommon thick.

“Glasgow again?” Jamie demanded, rising.

“No, your Grace,” McEwan said grimly. “These are matters come from London.”

Jamie swore under his breath. 

In the chaos at the shipyards, he had entirely overlooked the matters at hand relating to his wife’s previous betrothal and the bastard who would have had her beaten black and blue. He took the bundle at once, sitting on the edge of the desk as he leafed through them, examining each seal.

There was a missive from Belle’s father, which was naught to him, but the messages from his laywers in London, from Aston’s father’s house, from the Eagleshams, all gave him cause for concern. He opened each, reading through them all, unsurprised by the news from his allies and the overt hostility from his enemy. Aston’s father was a decent fellow and apologising profusely for his son, but it seemed that their pursuit of Aston might be verging on destructive for more than simply the man himself. 

“Seven hells!” he swore, looking up from the pages. “Fetch Bellamy at once.”

He had no doubt his son would take his time, so he resumed his seat and went back to work on the estate accounts, frowning over them until Bellamy made his appearance in the doorway.

He looked sheepish, and Jamie recalled he had absented himself from breakfast. It was unlike him, but then, he had been flustered and bashful the previous night, and Jamie knew his son well enough to know when matters were afoot.

Jamie waved him to the vacant chair opposite, finishing the page he was working on, then looked up at his son, wondering how honest Bellamy might dare be. “You are recovered from your chill?”

Bellamy smiled briskly. “Hardly a chill, father,” he said. “Only a little sniffle.”

Jamie gazed at him, and leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers before him. Business was business and vengeance was vengeance, but his son was more important than either of those things, especially his son’s welfare. “And what, pray,” he asked mildly, “had you dashing about in the woods like a wild man?”

His son blushed and Jamie groaned inwardly. It seemed that - alas - his assumption was correct.

“Hardly a wild man,” Bellamy said self-consciously, his hands clenched together in his lap. “Isabelle and Grandmama were being quite sharp at one another, and you know how cutting feminine sharpness might be.”

“Aye,” Jamie snorted. “That I know.” He blew out a noisy breath, and offered Bellamy the means with which to show honesty. “But that does not explain why you remained in the woods, no doubt in the company of our noble groundskeeper for the night.”

“I was drunk.” The words spat out like pistol fire, too quick, too hasty, and Jamie wanted to weep. His precious boy was many things, but a good liar was not one of them, not to his own father. Bellamy seemed to realise too, and laughed his usual, bright laugh, meeting his father’s eyes. There was fear there, and that broke Jamie’s heart. “I could barely stand, let alone walk,” his son lied, smiling as if he was not terrified. “Rab was hospitable enough to let me shelter in his home.”

Jamie folded his fingers together, tapping the balls of his thumbs against one another. “And that was all that happened?” he asked as gently as he could. He could not force his son to speak, nor tell him his suspicions, lest he was mistaken. 

Bellamy’s smile was too bright, too forced. “What else would have happened?” he said, the smile not enough to mask the fear in his eyes. “I had drunk half a bottle of claret when he found me dozing beneath a tree.” He tried to shrug casually. “I suspect I would have been quite hypothermic if he had not found me.”

Jamie knew then that his son would not be truthful. “Then I am glad,” he said, sitting up again. He drew papers towards him. “However, that is not the reason I asked you to come here, my lad.” He opened up the folder. “We have business that needs attended to.”

Bellamy’s expression turned grim. “Already?”

Jamie looked at his boy, so stalwartly defending his wife. “You know you were not meant to be here anyway, Bay,” he murmured. “Your place is making the law dance and twist, and you could not do that while keeping two women from one another’s throats.”

Bellamy’s lips twitched. “They are hardly that any longer,” he said, his stance relaxing now that matters were turned away from him. “I heard they had gone walking today, together.”

Jamie grimaced, knowing that ladies were wont to gossip. “Indeed,” he said. “They seem to get along quite well now.”

Bellamy pulled a face. “You know Grandmama is not so terrible as you imply,” he said, folding his hands over his belly. “You and she have been throwing rocks at one another so long, you neglect that you are not so dissimilar.”

Jamie made a curt gesture with one hand. “That is no never mind,” he said. “My concern comes to matters in town.” He picked up one of the letters. “You know that we cannot allow the situation to spin out of our control, and we cannot control it while we are both playing house here.”

He saw the moment his son knew what he was about. “And you cannot drag your wife hither and yon, until it is resolved,” he said quietly.

Jamie drew a breath, hating to speak so, but knowing it was necessary. “You must return at once,” he said. “I have received correspondence from town, and I fear matters may be problematic.” He pushed his chair back, rising. “I know we have people there to work on matters, but this is something I would only trust to you.”

Bellamy looked at him, stricken, as he feared he was being punished. “We have a dozen lawyers who would jump, should we call,” he said.

“Lawyers who act on the payment of the highest bidder,” Jamie said, bracing one hand on the mantle. It pained him to drive his son hence, especially now when they were at peace, but Bellamy was the brightest weapon in his arsenal. “Bay, who can I trust better if not mine own son?” He looked at Bellamy solemnly. “Your knowledge of the law surpasses many of them, and I know you would protect my interests ore than my gold ever could impel them to.”

Bellamy was looking down, flustered and blushing. “Father,” he said, self-conscious.

Jamie gazed at him. “I would not drive you from your home,” he said quietly, “but she must be protected, and you are the only one skilled enough to do so.”

His son rose from the chair without further question or hesitation, and Jamie loved him all the more for it. “I would not leave tonight,” he said. “I would need time to prepare for travel. Would it be early enough to depart in the morning?”

Jamie nodded. “By which means would you travel?”

He was unsurprised when Bellamy replied, “Coach to Edinburgh, then take a ship.” His son smiled crookedly. “You know I find riding such distances demmed uncomfortable.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Jamie said, nodding in acknowledgement. He approached, beckoning his son towards the desk and all the correspondence so recently received. “Come, we have much to prepare before your departure, my boy.”

Bellamy bent over the desk with him. They both examined the letters and the documents. His son immediately saw the problems that were arising, even noting details that Jamie had overlooked. They spoke at length, picking apart the trouble that had been caused by their hand, and the damage that could be done if Aston’s recklessness went unchecked.

It took minutes, then hours to unravel the mess that Aston was causing. It seemed that he was more than willing to steal money out from under the noses of people who considered him a friend, to better line his own purse, rather than risking his own finances. 

The more Jamie heard of the bastard, the more he loathed him.

“We should be able to undo the worst of it,” Bellamy said finally, making notes on a sheet, and looking up. “We must focus on him entirely, and ensure that it is only his purse that he is drawing from.”

“Quite,” Jamie agreed. He put his hand to his son’s shoulder, squeezing. “Thank you, Bay.”

Bellamy flushed. “It’s no matter, papa,” he said. “Mama Belle is our family now. She trusts us to protect her.”

Jamie looked at his son, who was trying to hide so much, even though it was written all over his face. “Yes,” he said quietly, squeezing Bellamy’s shoulder again. “We protect our own.” He straightened up, stepping back from his son. “But we have spent time enough here. The bell has rung for supper. Go and dress.”

Bellamy glanced at the desk. “Shall I take any of this back with me?”

“I will have it arranged for you with the coach,” Jamie murmured. Bellamy was halfway to the door when Jamie said his name again, quietly.

Bellamy paused, hand on the door handle. “Yes, father?”

“I’m proud of you, my boy,” Jamie said quietly. “I don’t say it as much as I should, but I’m damned proud of you.”

Bellamy’s features darkened, and he ducked his head self-consciously. “You’re getting sentimental, papa.”

“Perhaps,” Jamie agreed quietly. “But it doesn’t make it any less true.”

His son smiled bashfully and hurried out of the room.

Jamie sighed, sinking down into his chair and running his hands over his face. Perhaps it was better that Bay was returning to London. Removing him from the sphere of temptation might be enough to keep him safe. The real reason was Belle’s well-being, but now…

Now, it was a relief that he could keep his son safe in the same stroke.

The trouble was not Rab. The trouble was Bay himself. 

Privately, Jamie had wondered just how long it would take for his son to succumb to his affections for their groundskeeper. That Rab had responded was… unexpected. That was a complication, and that was why it was a mercy Bellamy would be sent elsewhere at least until he could learn to lie with more efficacy. 

The absence would not last forever, he knew, but by God, he was not going to see his son at the end of an executioner’s rope.


End file.
